


The Dusk of Our Revolution

by LittleGreenBudgie



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken
Genre: 1940s AU, AU, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, minor racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 49,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1414912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenBudgie/pseuds/LittleGreenBudgie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the hopes of becoming a fully-initiated member of the Black Fang, Matthew accepts a simple mission: find the missing police commissioner, Harken Griflet.  But with a mysterious figure hunting the Black Fang and his private eye flatmate, Guy, stirring up trouble, Matthew finds himself in over his head, with only his quick wits and the help of the deadly but beautiful Leila to keep him alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mission

**Author's Note:**

> _The last horizons I can see are filled with bars and factories_  
>  _And in them all we fight to stay awake..._  
>  _I'll drink enough of anything to make this world look new again_  
>  _I'm drunk, drunk, drunk in the gardens and the graves_  
>  \-- _Lost Horizons_ , Gin Blossoms

The man sat on the packing crate in the corner.

He fanned his face with five playing cards, cracking a wide yawn. He didn’t bother to examine the others’ faces or put more than a token effort into bluffing anymore; the game had gone on so long that even the dealer had lost track of how many hands they had played, and Matthew wasn’t the only one yawning. The stakes hadn’t been worth actual money since the game’s beginning, anyway, and the clock’s hands had meandered through hour after hour, the steady drum of raindrops on the roof drowning out signs of the outside world. With the dusty lamp casting flickering light over the cheap card table, the four looked like blue-collar scoundrels seeking a moment’s entertainment while the dog tracks were closed.

He would be hard-put to find a more accurate image, actually, Matthew thought as he looked at the other players. The perpetual Elibe damp forced the dealer, Teodor, to keep his hat mashed over his hair and his flimsy overcoat pulled tight around him. His bloodshot eyes always seemed a second away from sliding shut, giving him a lazy, stoned look, like a homeless druggie. Across the table, Lloyd leaned back, his legs crossed and a handgun worn openly at his hip. A wisp of a goatee clung to his chin and he held a cigarette in his hand. Their third player, a woman with short hair and unfashionable leather boots, carried a gun, same as Lloyd did. Ursula had a lean, wiry look to her, like a wildcat, and she wore a men’s jacket and trousers. Matthew had to admit that he didn’t look much better; between the four of them, not one would look out of place in a police lineup, never mind at the dog tracks. Even so, they looked a damn sight better off than many as of late, what with the city in the worst depression it had ever known.

After all, crime paid.

“Three of a kind,” Lloyd said, tossing his cards onto the table.

“Do you think we ought to check if the cards are marked? He’s been winning an awful lot lately,” Matthew asked.

“I’m tickled that you say that, considering the deck belongs to me,” Ursula said, quirking an eyebrow. “Or are you insinuating that he’s cheating with someone else’s cards?”

“Dunno. It’s possible,” he teased, folding anyway. “I’d almost rather he was. It’s so bloody boring.”

“Hey, be glad for what you’ve got. Least we can drink and gamble. I bet the council would take that away if they didn’t have bigger things to worry about,” Lloyd replied.

“Of course: us,” Teodor remarked as he dealt another hand. They halfheartedly laughed, the sound dying out too soon.

“You good fellows, maybe. I’m not exactly a big fish, no matter the size of the pond,” Matthew said.

With crime at an all-time high, Elibe was a very big pond indeed for a second-rate thief looking for recognition, especially among living legends like the people he sat with. The names White Wolf and Blue Crow cropped up in news reports with punch-card regularity, always accompanying some daring tale of vigilante rebellion. Lloyd cut a stark, powerful profile against the flare of gunfire as he brought down another of the Taliver gang, the demons that the police didn’t have the resources to go after. Ursula’s silhouette flickered and shimmered before the flames of a corrupt politician’s office falling to a well-pitched petrol bomb. Even Teodor, the Shadow Hawk, chased down records of shady deals that the council would rather the everyman didn’t know about, exposing their lies to the very people they oppressed.

They were part of the Black Fang, a collection of every malcontent and thug that they could round up off the streets and try to beat some sense of honor into. It was a broken sense of honor, tattered and bloodstained, but it had endured through civil war and half a city’s collapse. That honor provided a backbone of sorts for one of the only organizations left in Elibe that hadn’t sold out or turned upon itself.

“All things given, I wouldn’t complain. Things have been rough lately,” Lloyd said darkly.

“Did something happen?” Matthew asked. His cards lay forgotten on the table.

“Not to me, no.”

“Who, then?”

“You didn’t hear?” Ursula asked.

Matthew leaned forward, failing to maintain the disinterested façade expected of him. It was important enough that Lloyd and Ursula traded glances, as if silently debating what exactly to tell him. As two of the Four Fangs, the highest-ranking gangsters sans Nergal and his personal entourage, they had the authority to even go so far as to defy aspects of the gang’s code should they deem it necessary. Of course, the code didn't ban telling an initiate important information, but they had shut Matthew out of lesser meetings before.

Lloyd slowly said, “The Angel of Death was brought down. We don’t know how. Not yet.”

“Simple. They pointed and pulled the trigger,” Teodor cut in. “No amount of study will overcome mortality.”

Ursula had the poise to not react, but Lloyd rolled his eyes. He continued, though:

“He’s still alive, but only just. Let’s face it—no policeman has even been good enough to score a hit on him. He’s too careful. If someone can take down the Angel of Death, what next? Which of us is safe? I’d think twice about bemoaning anonymity, kid.”

The idea of someone dangerous enough to gun down Jaffar, he who had killed more people than a hangman’s noose, made Matthew nervous and queasy by itself. Thinking ruefully of his handgun, which he’d only ever shot in the firing range, he accepted Lloyd's words. He wouldn’t last a minute in a real shootout. Still, three years doing grunt work for the Black Fang made him grit his teeth and wish for something better.

“A bloke like me isn’t really fit for firefights anyway. I'd rather work behind the scenes. Do something more like management, you know? Look at Ephidel—”

Lloyd’s lip twitched, a disgusted sneer touching his features for an instant. Matthew had heard that the Black Fang had undergone drastic changes since Lloyd’s father, the legendary Brendan Reed, had died. His replacement had taken up the leadership long before Matthew had joined, though. All he had ever known was the rule of Nergal and the Quinn family: Ephidel, the charismatic manager of day-to-day Fang affairs; Sonia, in charge of maintaining connections with the city’s prominent figureheads; the eerie hitmen, Limstella and Denning.

“I could just do something like that, I mean,” he finished lamely.

“When this mess clears up, maybe I’ll consider it,” Ursula said.

Knowing a rebuff when he heard one, Matthew subsided. He was acutely aware of the geometric Black Fang tattoo on Lloyd’s arm and of the matching ones concealed by the other two’s clothing. His own skin remained uninked and he lacked the nickname awarded to all important Fang members. Sitting among White Wolf, Blue Crow, and Shadow Hawk, plain Matthew Elliot felt shabby in comparison.

“I’ve got customers to attend to anyway. Let me know how it all blows over, all right?” he said with forced cheer.

“All right,” Lloyd said, words distracted and halfhearted; he had already dismissed Matthew.

He was lucky they had the time to spare to even acknowledge him anyway, he thought sourly as he stepped out of the rec room and into the mist and drizzle characteristic of that time of year. He had to thank his sponsor for that, whispering honeyed words in the right ears and granting Matthew privilege beyond his lowly rank. Granted, Ursula and Lloyd didn’t need any incentive to mingle with initiates and heroes alike, but his sponsor still made him feel more like one of the gang than he might have otherwise. They all shared the same shitty Black Fang property, anyway, the same rec room that looked like the opium-addicted lovechild of a warehouse and a dumpster, the same torn-up firing range, the same drafty boarding house with plywood boarding up the windows and garbage bags tacked up to keep the damp out.

Their parking lot looked equally dismal, little more than a cracked blacktop with a sorry basketball hoop loitering at one end. The other side opened into an alley as narrow as a man’s chance of finding a job. Only two cars occupied a space intended to hold many, but petrol cost more than most were willing to or capable of parting with. One, a sleek blue convertible, belonged to Ursula, a gift from her wealthy parents before she left that life. The second, a rusted tin of a car with a home-done paint job and a cracked windscreen, served as Matthew's only source of legal income.

He fought with the front door, which always jammed, before sliding into the familiar careworn seat. Flicking his music on, he rolled through the alleyway and onto one of the winding back streets that only a long-time Lycian resident could navigate. With a one-finger salute, he cheerfully cut off a bicyclist and accelerated onto the road. The cabbie had nearly a half hour before his regular--a moody, redheaded bloke some few years younger than him--would expect him, but Matthew was more than used to waiting on passengers. In any case, it gave him time to mull over the conversation earlier.

He parked along the side of the road, trying to remember standard procedure for when a Fang member was wounded. More likely than not, Ephidel would call for a lockdown. The guard on their turf would double, activity would grind to a standstill, tattoos would be hidden, and weapons would be carried at all times. They had followed that procedure when the Caelin faction had undergone a brutal internal conflict and Ursula’s right-hand man, Beyard, died in the dispute. That lockdown had lasted over two weeks. One such as this, without a foreseeable end, could last many more, which would effectively smother his dreams of full membership. If things got truly bad, well…

They might have to bring in the cleaner. No name drew more fearful looks from the Fang than his, considering the leaders tasked him with killing those who betrayed the gang. No one knew quite how he operated, but rumors abounded over the impossible skill and ruthlessness of such a man; at least, rumors abounded within the gang. The rest of the world, the drunks loitering in the shadows of the bars and the suits returning from their cramped cubicles, had never heard of him. No police station had a wanted poster with his face on it, no government workers whispered his name, and no wall bore his symbol. Even most of the Fang only knew him as the cleaner, the Hurricane.

Matthew grinned, wondering what help exactly the gang intended to get from one whiplash-thin man who preferred a soft bed and a cold glass of wine to any gunslinging. Legault DeVere had become the cleaner for two very good reasons, neither of which had to do with legendary marksmanship or calculated ruthlessness. Firstly, he had the nimbleness of a cat burglar, which had enabled him to scale the side of a five-story flat to calmly murder a turncoat in the past. Secondly, he had simply outlasted everyone else. He helped found the Black Fang, and through the cunning of a fox and the toughness of one who grew up on the streets, Legault had avoided both serious injury and incarceration. A jagged double scar wrote his only mistake plainly across his face, slashing across his eye like twinned lightning.

The smell of smoke and cheap cologne tumbled into the taxi as Matthew’s best customer slid into the back. He shelved his thoughts and turned in his seat, shooting a teasing grin over his shoulder.

“You’re late, Cornwell,” Matthew said.

“Shove off. It’s only by five minutes,” Raven returned.

“What’s up? You’re not your usual cheerful self.”

Raven’s scowl darkened. On the best of days, he looked like a dog with its head stuck in a chain link fence, all hunched shoulders and a personality as abrasive as crushed glass. Thankfully, no matter how bad the day was, he never got much worse; he stayed brusque and fairly impersonal, and best of all, he paid up promptly.

“You say that like there’s just one thing to speak ill of,” he growled.

“What, did you get sacked? I can’t keep driving you if you did, you know—”

“I’m still employed.”

“The government, then?”

Raven snorted.

“If I ruined my day over everything the government did wrong, I’d never enjoy anything. I can make a special exception for the chief consul, but it’s none of your damn business anyway.”

“All right, I give up. What’s eating you?”

“The telly’s broken and tonight’s the Etruria-Ryerde game. I’ve got four copper riding on the outcome and I damn well don’t want to miss it,” he said.

“Which side are you betting on?” Matthew asked. He didn't religiously follow football the same way some of the city did, but he watched the games when they were on. Before someone busted the rec room telly, the sound of the games always rose over the Fang chatter—Linus loved them. Matthew had fallen behind in the past few weeks, though.

“Ryerde.”

“Isn’t Etruria favored?”

“Their best striker tore an ACL and the backup has no endurance. If you’re interested, I know a nice place to make a bet. Reliable and legal,” Raven said.

“’Fraid not. Thanks, though. You want me to drop you off at the usual place?”

“Yeah. Not interested in football?”

“Little bit. I’ve only got a radio at home, though, and it loses something of the excitement,” he said with a shrug.

The redhead nodded in understanding. It cost quite a bit to buy a television, and with the council’s latest tax on owning one, Matthew couldn't believe that Raven could afford it. Then again, he reminded himself, he didn’t know what exactly his passenger did to make money. For all he knew, Raven worked somewhere a notch above the menial jobs that most everyone in the rundown Araphen borough fell back on.

Glancing up at the rearview mirror and the reflection in it, Matthew doubted it, though. The beginning of a beard shadowed Raven's jaw, and dirt scuffed his clothes. None of the few people who stood on the filthy, refuse-ridden streets batted an eye as he threw a few coins at Matthew and stepped out of the cab.

He quickly counted over them, making sure the fare was in order. A copper and four zinc disappeared into his moneybag and a smile touched his lips. It wouldn't cover even a half tank of petrol, what with the prices in recent months, but he needed Raven's patronage. In preparation for the lockdown, he would need to work up a bit of extra coin to compensate for the lack of his usual funds. Even if he skimped on luxuries, he might still struggle to make rent.

He peeled out of Araphen as quickly as he could. As a born-and-bred Lycian man, he faced no danger from the hate crimes that everyone knew Araphen for, but the hard-eyed men on the streets still made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Nominally, neither the Fang nor any of the lesser gangs laid claim to the miserable neighborhood, but that didn’t mean that an overly bold Taliver member wouldn’t hurl a brick through his window in a petty display of anger.

Matthew eased off the speed as he passed into Khathelet. Like Araphen, it didn't belong to the Black Fang and hadn't since the Caelin insurrection a year prior, but unlike Araphen, hardly anyone unsavory roamed the streets. Not a bad place to live, he reasoned, if one couldn’t afford better, but Matthew had business to do and Khathelet was far too sleepy for a cabbie looking to find work. No, before dark, he headed to rough-and-tumble Badon. Boasting Lycia’s premier port, a slew of bars, dog tracks, animal fighting rings, and most of the city's masked wrestling arenas, Badon’s population fluctuated wildly on game days. Someone always needed a ride, either to the center of the excitement or to beat a hasty retreat from bar fights or from the few cops that dared patrol the streets. After dark, no one but the tough or foolhardy walked through Badon.

He really only worked to distract himself until the streetlights feebly flickered on, though; burning with curiosity about the Angel of Death’s injuries, Matthew needed to make a trip to The Full Moon. The Fang maintained a pub in Laus , where the consul turned a blind eye to Fang work, and it haunted the space between an old tattoo parlor and a psychic’s office that had gone out of business months prior. Few businesses thrived in Laus anymore, not since the consul upped the taxes again. Sometimes Matthew found it hard to keep up with the patchwork mess of bylaws and regional codes that made up the various boroughs; each councilor created their own rules on top of the district-wide Lycian laws, making it functionally impossible to sort through all of them.

He parked under a graffiti image of a white wolf before sauntering through the front door. Had any cop attempted the same, Matthew knew that sharp-eyed Denning lurked in the second story window, his sniper rifle within arm’s length. Denning waited day and night up there, only coming down for jobs or sleep, as far as Matthew knew.

Few people occupied the common room. Besides the bartender—a rodentlike man with watery eyes and a bad overbite—only four others sat in the usually bustling tavern. A pair of fresh recruits, both teenagers, crowded around the staticky telly, watching greyscale football players scurry back and forth. A third, a young, genial man with electric blue hair gelled up in spikes, raised a hand in a wave. Matthew waved back at him before heading along.

The fourth patron lounged in a stiff wooden chair with his feet up in a posture of calculated uncaring. An unlit cigarette interrupted his easy smirk, and a trilby with a purple band above the brim shadowed his pale eyes.

Matthew took the other seat at the table.

“Hey, Matthew. It’s been too long,” he said, long legs crossed ankle over knee.

“You too, Legault.”

“Hey, Jan! Can I get a pair of Elfires on draft?”

As Jan nodded and hurried to fill the order, Legault turned back to Matthew, continuing, “How has my favorite thief been?”

“Thanks,” he said as the barkeep placed the drinks before them. He replied, “Mostly? The same as always. Government trying their best to tax poor unlicensed cabbies.”

“I figure they've been unsuccessful?”

“Right. As White Wolf said earlier, they’ve got better things to worry about than a scrawny bloke like me,” Matthew agreed. “How about you?”

“I’ve been doing a bit job in Ilia. Ephidel thinks their police force merits investigating, and you know how it is. It's rather tiresome; a good honest criminal can’t seem to catch a day’s holiday. No rest for the wicked, I suppose. Instead, I'm poking my nose in Ilian business as if we don’t have bigger problems,” he said, thin shoulders stabbing upwards in a shrug.

“I thought they weren’t tied to the government.”

“Yeah, nominally. They’re a mercenary force, and if anyone in this city can claim to be truly neutral, it’s the Ilians. Of course, you must consider the fact that in this day and age, there’s only one buyer in the market for trained police for hire.”

“The government,” Matthew said, rolling his eyes. “What’s next? Are they going to come poking around our turf?”

“Doubtful. Most have been contracted as private guards. The others have their own district to worry about and are more than content to ignore us if we ignore them,” Legault replied with a dismissive wave.

“So you’ve learned nothing important?”

“As I said, it’s a bit job. They’re not a threat, but you can never be too careful. Recklessness breeds trouble, and all that. If Ephidel thinks they might interfere with Bernese or Lycian politics, then it was at least worthwhile to check them out.”

“Speaking of trouble, I heard the Angel of Death was shot,” he said quietly, eyes darting over to the men by the television to see if they listened in. Neither looked up or gasped in shock, but he leaned closer to Legault anyway.

“Well, yeah. Who told you that?”

“White Wolf.”

“Did he tell you anything else?” Legault asked.

“Just that we don’t know who shot him. Why?”

Legault stroked his pointed chin thoughtfully. He looked a dashing rake in his herringbone drape suit and leather gloves, his silver hair kept so long that it turned heads. Of course, he had carefully constructed the whole image, down to the cigarette and the hat, to lend himself an air of mystery that perfectly fit with his exaggerated deliberation. He always joked that half of being infamous was looking the part, and that if you could manage that and a suitably ridiculous moniker, no one would question you.

“There is something far more important going on than just Jaffar’s wounds,” Legault whispered.

He paused for dramatic effect, staring down Matthew for the requisite five seconds, building tension as surely as any actor. Matthew resisted rolling his eyes. He could let Legault have his fun if it meant learning exactly what had happened.

“Have you heard of Police Commissioner Harken Griflet? Yes, yes, I’m sure you have. You haven’t spent the past year living under a rock. Well, the simple fact of the matter is that he’s gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

“Vanished. Poof. Kaput. He and two other officers were patrolling our territory down by the dog tracks and, so word has it, they stumbled upon Jaffar. Naturally, his face is on every wanted poster from here to the Western Isles, and the idiots attempted to arrest him. Jaffar put a bullet through one of their heads before they could blink, but as he and the other squared off, he was shot twice and the commissioner pulled a vanishing act. Jaffar had to make good his escape, but…”

“So the cop shot him and ran away. Where’s the problem?” Matthew interrupted. “Why’re we worrying about Angel of Death or this Griflet guy?”

“Because Harken never showed back up. It’s been over ten hours and no one’s seen hide nor hair of him. Intriguing though the idea of undercover subterfuge is, no officer alive would gun down the oh-so-infamous Angel of Death and then decide to go off on a lark without mentioning it to the station. We don't even know if he was the one who shot Jaffar,” Legault replied, tossing his hands up with practiced melodrama.

“So some guy nearly killed our best gunman, then made off with the chief of police? Is that what you’re saying?” Matthew demanded.

“What makes you think it’s a kidnapping?”

“Unless his body turns up in the river, I'll bet he's still alive. I mean, from what you’re telling me, he disappears in a firefight and no one’s seen him. Hell, even a guy like me can’t go a day without someone knowing where I am. Unless he’s laying low for some reason, people would’ve noticed, right?”

Legault’s smile broadened.

“Yep. I came to the same conclusion. The police commissioner is a powerful bargaining chip to have. He’s a wealth of information and a hostage worthy of a king’s ransom. Naturally, the Fang is interested in acquiring that bargaining chip, if you get my drift. The idea that someone else snapped him up from under our noses is worrying. It would be in our best interest to stamp out this rogue group and make sure that bargaining chip finds its way onto our table.”

“So you’ll be out hunting him down?” Matthew asked. It figured Legault would be called in to handle something like that. Nothing in the city went on without Legault knowing. More likely than not, Legault would announce in a matter of minutes that he'd known all along where Harken had gotten off to and he simply wished to make conversation.

“Mm, ordinarily, yes. But I believe there’s someone a hair better suited to traipsing around the city and locating an estranged chief of police.”

So one of the Four Fangs would get the job, then. That made sense; whoever kidnapped Harken had also incapacitated the Angel of Death, and they would need serious firepower to crush that kind of opposition. Lloyd could handle it without any trouble, and with a bit of preparation, he would find Harken in a matter of hours.

“White Wolf, then?”

“Lloyd? Well, yeah, but he’s got quite a lot on his plate. No, I was thinking of a certain uninitiated kid who could use a big break, hm?” he said, flashing a grin like a knife being drawn.

Matthew managed a series of disjointed sounds and little else. He hadn’t heard of a job even half as important in all the years he’d been in the Fang. Legault would have to have been completely insane to offer it to him, even in jest, to say the least of the danger. Every governmental body in the city would have a stake in finding the missing Lycian police commissioner. Whoever had mowed down Angel of Death would strike like a thunderbolt should they find out someone interfered. He couldn’t even dream of undertaking such a job…yet the payoff should he succeed! They would initiate him, give him his tattoo, his nickname, and monetary compensation enough to make his past six months of work seem trivial. No longer would the others force him to leave a meeting for “initiated only.” No longer would he casually pickpocket passersby because no one trusted him with the real missions. They would see him as a hero: Matthew Elliot, the man who defeated that which even the Angel of Death couldn’t!

“Well? You up to it?” Legault asked.

“I—are you—I’m no detective,” he managed. “This is detective work, right? Snooping around, looking for missing persons…”

“In a fashion, yeah. You could always ask Guy.”

Matthew jerked as if he had touched a live wire.

“Leave Guy out of this. He doesn’t know a thing about the Fang and I’d rather it stayed that way. Besides, he’s a not much of a detective anyway. I’d really be better off if he’s just safe and clueless back in the flat.”

Guy had been his best mate since their schooldays, and they'd gone in together to rent a flat after they graduated. Neither could afford the luxury of living alone, and in any case, Matthew considered it something of his job to keep Guy out of trouble. He didn't really need it—Guy was a skilled marksman who also had some formal martial arts training that he’d gotten from his old neighbor, a half-crazy cage fighter who went by the pseudonym Wo Dao. Rather, Matthew had a bit of a soft spot for the skinny detective. Guy stumbled through life with a wide-eyed idealism entirely unsuitable for a city like Elibe, combined with a perpetual high-strung jumpiness and the sort of unchecked temerity that left others shocked. Matthew always wondered how Guy had gotten so far in life without ending up in a ditch with a knife between his ribs.

“Relax. I won’t press if you’re so adamant. However, I daresay the rest of the Fang wouldn’t be so forgiving should they find out that you aren’t just using your mate to spy on the police, hm? I would keep that in mind when you consider your course of action, or how loosely you speak of him.”

“You can tell them that I’m just keeping his nose out of Black Fang business,” Matthew countered.

“You know Lloyd wouldn’t believe that for a second longer than I do,” Legault warned. “But it doesn't really matter. He doesn’t have to know about Guy or your mission.”

“Eh? What do you mean?”

“Do you really want people like Jerme or Kenneth or Pascal trying to ‘help’ you? Lloyd is fine, of course, but unless you’d like every two-zinc novice lining up to snipe your job, I’d keep your mouth shut. That's just me, though. You don't have to take the advice of an old leftover,” Legault said.

It took Matthew a half second to match the names with their proper pseudonyms; Legault had always been a bit odd like that, but it was unusual to hear names outside of the Quinn family tossed around so casually. Death Kite, Shrike, and Crazed Beast all had their own reputations, though, none of them good.

“Yeah, I see what you mean. All right. I'm your man.”

“Excellent, then. You have your job, kid. Let's see...It's Sunday today, isn't it? Meet me here next Saturday, then. About a week to either bang or bust. If you’ve got nothing by then, it’s a lost cause, don’t you think?”

He kicked his chair out and drew to his feet. Looking down his pointed nose, he stared at Matthew hard enough to make the cabbie wilt under his piercing gaze. Every doubt he should have thought of before he accepted tumbled over him. He could read the look in Legault’s eyes as plain as if he’d written it out: “You can still back out now. I won’t judge you.”

But he would, Matthew knew. Deep down, he would.

“A week sounds great.”

“Farewell, then,” he said as he walked towards the door. He paused and called over his shoulder, “Oh, and Matthew?”

“Yeah?”

“Good luck.”

With that, he walked out of the bar, his lanky figure all but vanishing in the cloying mist. The door swung shut, and Matthew found himself alone with a lukewarm mug of beer and the weight of his first real job.


	2. The Investigation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _And I spent time beneath the trestles_  
>  _With the punks and dimestore saints_  
>  _We kept faith and a switchblade tucked beneath our coats._  
>  _And I ran with dirty angels, slept out cold in the rain._  
>  _We were scared and tired and barely seventeen._  
>  \-- _The Navesink Banks_ , The Gaslight Anthem

“You wouldn’t believe it,” Guy said around a mouthful of cornflakes. “’M stuck guarding some stupid employee check-in place off in Tuscana.”

Matthew looked up over the paper, watching him shovel cereal in his mouth.

“Tuscana? Isn’t that a little close to Araphen?”

Guy made a face. Despite dressing in sensible slacks and a button-down shirt, like most working-class blokes, no one could mistake him for Lycian. With his slanted eyes and stick-straight hair, he wore his Sacaen heritage like a neon sign around his neck. Even though one of the consuls was half-Sacaen, the common folk still had no love for their people. Most Sacaens that dared live in inner-city Lycia worked odd jobs where they didn't have to interact with the hoi polloi, Guy Kitsai included.

“I can take care of myself. I've been carrying my gun, too!” he replied. “Job sucks anyway. Eight straight hours of standing in front of a door and telling people to show me their IDs.”

“How is that your job? Aren’t you a PI?”

“Yeah,” Guy muttered, lifting the bowl to his lips and drinking. “’Cept since that Tania divorce case a fortnight back, there’ve been no people in the market for a bloke like me, so…Had to do _something_. Got to have gold if I want to eat, eh?”

“Yeah, I got you. How’s the rest of the office doing?”

“Not good. Eubans said we’re gonna be facing some cutbacks. I might get laid off, like my cousin—you remember him? Rath? Anyway, he says Caelin’s consul is lookin’ for bodyguards, so maybe he’ll sign on with her…”

Matthew shot him a withering look.

“Hey, I didn’t say I would! But, y’know, she’s one of us, right? So it wouldn’t be too bad…”

“Sure. Same jerk-offs that fired you from the police for ‘budget cuts’ want you licking their boots now,” Matthew said with a snort of derision. “If you ask me, there’s no winning with ‘em.”

Guy shrugged as he took the paper. He took forever to go through the pages even on a good day—he hadn’t even learned to read Etrurian until secondary school—but he always liked to hear about the latest crimes and arrests. His foolhardy dream to be the best detective in the city spurred him to spend his time off investigating things and generally getting in the way of the real police. Usually, it didn’t bother Matthew, but he had already seen the front-page article and could only pray Guy had too much to do to worry about it.

From the way Guy's eyes widened and an excited crooked grin overtook his face, Matthew knew he had no such luck.

“Hey, Matthew! Did you see this? Some Black Fang guys made off with the chief of police!” he shouted, cramming the newspaper under Matthew’s nose. “Look!”

“Yeah, I read the paper too, you know.”

“It could be my big break! Ooh, if I could get my hands on that Angel of Death, I'd--”

“You’d die, you idiot,” Matthew snapped.

“I would not! I’m a damn good shot! I could take him!” he insisted. Matthew sighed; a dragon could land in the middle of the city and Guy would be the first one out there, waving his gun and shouting challenges. He was like a kindergartener’s macaroni-art collage of exuberance and chutzpah, sloppy and in constant danger of falling apart. Old fights had broken his nose thrice over and left it a crooked mess, and when Guy smiled widely enough, Matthew could just barely see the gap where he’d lost a premolar.

“Sure. The most dangerous thug in the whole damn city and you want to walk up to his front door and challenge him to a duel. He'd probably take you out as soon as you turned your back to him. That's how life works. Still sound brilliant to you?”

“Yes,” Guy muttered sullenly.

“Have fun with that, then. I’ve got work to do,” he sighed, throwing up his hands.

“I wouldn’t have to fight him, though. I could find Harken. Then everyone would have to pay attention to me!”

Matthew froze, hand hovering over the doorknob.

“How’re you going to pay rent if you're wandering around looking for some police bloke?”

“I wouldn’t have to quit my job! I could work nights or something. C’mon, Matthew! I’m never gonna be the best detective working _security_!”

“Why’re you asking me for permission? I’m not your mother. If you’re determined to get yourself killed, I can’t stop you. I just want you to think about whether this is smart.”

 _For once in your life_. Even as he shut the door behind him and jogged down the rusted staircase, he knew Guy wouldn’t be able to pass up an opportunity that big. Guy lived for that kind of noble, foolhardy shit. He thanked the fact that Guy made a poor investigator. He'd only gotten as far as he had through sheer determination, much the same as anything he’d achieved in his sorry life. In all likelihood, he would flail pitifully at the problem until someone else solved it, and then he would be forced to give up. He would sulk and moan about it for a few days, but then he’d hear about some new outrage or another and he’d catapult himself into the thick of things with the same gusto as ever.

His fears assuaged, Matthew wrestled with the front door of his car and threw himself into the seat. He had to make a trip uptown, to the Etrurian district; a friend from his schooldays knew a bit about everything and it would certainly be worth the time to see if he had any advice. Of course, it would mean putting up with some of the ridiculous laws that only Etrurians cared about, like parking in certain places and actually yielding at intersections, but he would endure it for the sake of his mission.

No sign marked the change from Lycia to Etruria, nor did the familiar sooty cityscape simply fall apart. Rather, old architecture began to crop up, scaffolded stonework and eroded frescoes interspersed with the more modern brick-and-iron high-rises. The main streets were still paved in cobblestones, although decades of driving had chewed up the stonework in some areas, and the gothic gargoyles perched on some roofs were splattered with pigeon poop. The Eliminean churches that infrequently occupied Lycian streetsides tripled in number, their gabled roofs and simple wooden exteriors sharing space with streetside cafés and some of the only still-operating libraries Matthew had ever seen.

Despite its tarnished pride, people walked the streets without watching their backs at every turn. Etruria had the usual assortment of the homeless and the hungover squatting in its alleyways, but unlike Araphen or Laus, they were distinguishable from the regular citizens. Etruria’s small police force at least made the effort to keep their district safe, and they were not stretched as thin as the freelance Ilians or the exhausted Lycian force. Accustomed to the rough-and-tumble streets of his own district, Matthew fidgeted as he parked in a restaurant’s empty lot. No one noticed as he took to the sidewalk rather than actually walking in.

Several of the artsy cafés and and jewelry stores had darkened fronts, the windows boarded up. Matthew only passed one bread line on the way to his destination, though, and he wondered if Etruria really was doing better than Lycia or if they just did a better job of hiding their poverty. He glanced down at the scrap of paper he’d scribbled an address on: 17 Aureola Street, Flat #275.

He still almost walked past the building—it looked more like a governmental office than an apartment, what with the private parking lot and the general cleanliness. As he trudged up the staircase, he zipped up his jacket to hide the Ostian football shirt he wore. His friend had always been finicky about appearances.

Matthew knocked on the door, muttering “one hippopotamus, two hippopotamus,” under his breath as he counted off the seconds. It took half a minute before any sounds came from inside the building, and another fifteen seconds before the door swung open. A short, androgynous young man with thick glasses glared up at him.

“Matthew. What are you doing here?”

“Long time no see, Erk. Just in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d stop by to see my old pal.”

“Yes, I imagine the classmate I haven’t seen since graduation just happened to stop by. Let me rephrase: what do you want?”

“All right, all right, I’ve been found out. Don't be mad. I just need a few moments of your time. How about you let me in?”

Erk’s brows lowered a fraction more, but he didn’t slam the door in Matthew’s face.

“I have studying to do,” Erk muttered, yet he turned and walked back into the flat, leaving the door open. The fact that he hadn’t invited Matthew in set off warning alarms in his head; he had always joked that Erk would serve tea and dance through highbrow etiquette for fifteen minutes before a bully could get around to dunking his head in the toilet. Matthew hadn't seen him in years, though, and maybe Erk had changed more than he or Guy had.

He followed Erk in anyway, glancing around at the little room. It had about enough floor space to park a pair of cars side by side in the living room alone, and he didn't see any signs of another person sharing it. Other than a cumbersome bookshelf, an armchair, and a desk with a typewriter upon it, the little flat looked unlived in. Matthew briefly considered kicking off his shoes by the door, but he didn't want to invite himself in any more than he already had, so he settled for leaning against the wall.

“So, you’re in university now, huh?” he began.

“Yes, it’s quite the workload, but you know what the demand is like for a degree.”

“You always did take your education pretty seriously.”

Erk peered at him over those wire-rimmed glasses, the sort that had gone out of style twenty years prior, and arched an eyebrow with wordless cynicism.

“Right, right. More seriously than I did.”

“Matthew, the cat that lived behind the kitchen dumpster took her education more seriously than you did,” he said dryly.

Matthew swallowed a sarcastic retort and settled for a stiff smile. Erk had always had a stick up his ass, even in their schooldays, so it was better to err on the side of caution and butter him up like a breakfast scone.

“Hey, I graduated, and it wasn’t like I was going to university anyway, you know? We can’t all be geniuses.”

“I’m quite flattered, really, and I could argue semantics on the technical definition of genius, but I do happen to be short on time. You caught me an hour before class and I still need to brush up on symbolism in _Hartmut's Saga_ before lecture.”

“Look, I’ll cut to the chase. You wouldn’t happen to have heard about the police chief who went missing?”

“Yes, I listen to the news. What of it?”

“Well, Guy’s still working private investigating. You remember Guy, right?”

“How could I not? You two put the only bad mark on my permanent record that I ever got, if you recall.”

Matthew grimaced—he most certainly did recall, thank you very much. His mother had given him quite the punishment over that particular fiasco. For once in his life, it honestly hadn’t been his fault, any more than it was Erk’s. They had both stepped in to try to pull Guy out of a scuffle with a swaggering idiot of a fourth-year who called himself Beast or Glass or something equally dumb. Professors tended to turn a blind eye to the ubiquitous fights, but a rickety old desk finally gave way when the fourth-year shoved Erk back into it, and before anyone could blink, the headmaster had caned and suspended all of them. It hadn’t really affected him or Guy, as they both missed their fair share of class, but it had to have devastated Erk.

“I’m really sorry about that,” he muttered with a good bit more chagrin than he actually felt. “You know Guy and I would’ve taken your punishment for you, since it was our fault and all.”

“Yes, yes, it’s all behind us,” Erk said, mouth a tight, disapproving line.

“Really sorry. Honest. But, well, Guy has started investigating this whole police mess, and I figured I’d lend a hand. Seemed like a decent sort of thing to do. Even I'm not so good that I can solve a case myself, though.”

“So you thought I’d know something? Matthew, use your brain. The closest I’ve been to crime scene investigating is the evening news.”

“And no one would ever presume otherwise, rest assured,” he muttered. Raising his voice, he said, “I know you used to read a lot of those forensic science books and stuff, though, so I thought you might be able to offer a spot of advice. Where does a bloke start without proper police resources?”

“You do realize that vigilantes can be arrested for impeding justice, right?”

“Huh? Really?”

“If you stick your nose in police business, you could very easily find yourself enjoying a nice stay in prison. That goes for you, and if Guy hasn’t been assigned the case, that goes for him, too. Please do the safe thing and keep your heads down and your mouths shut,” he sighed.

“Don't be such a bore! When have I ever done the safe thing?”

“I’ll concede that one. If you’re dead set on getting yourself arrested, then, I can tell you that the police have a standard procedure in the face of ransom, or, to be more accurate, they have absolutely none. All Lycian police must sign a no-hostage clause to join the force. This is both theoretical and presuming the procedure hasn’t changed in the last five years, though,” Erk amended with a shrug.

“So you’re saying there’s no point trying to find out about a ransom demand?”

“There might have been one, but if you have limited resources and limited time? I would focus it elsewhere. Theoretically, of course.”

“Theoretically, yeah. Nice and theoretical.”

Erk heaved a long-suffering sigh and massaged his temples.

“I’ll pretend for your sake that it will stay that way. I really do have to skim over my reading material, as much as I would like to continue this line of discussion,” he said. Matthew inwardly congratulated him on only letting a hint of sarcasm show through in his words. “Do give Guy my regards.”

“Yeah, I will. Maybe he’ll drop in once he’s done with this case.”

“I’m sure that would be positively charming.”

“Great. Thanks for the help, by the way. Have fun with class.”

“It was no trouble at all. I trust you can see yourself out?”

“Yeah, sure. I'm off!”

Matthew waved over his shoulder and headed out the door. His footsteps didn’t produce tinny echoes on the stairs, unlike they did on the ones leading up to his own flat. He wondered how much more Erk paid a month for the building. Likely more than he and Guy could afford, Matthew mused. Erk’s parents owned a small fortune, the lucky bastards, and the one time Matthew had eaten dinner at their palatial house, he had felt shabby and poor. At least Erk's college flat looked reasonably modest. Sucking up to him was bad enough without standing in the middle of a condo.

At least he had picked up quality information from the visit. He hadn’t thought that the police would take kindly to his investigations, but he hadn’t known they could actually jail him for it. Just another reason why he couldn’t trust the council’s dogs. They gave fair trial in the same manner that wild mongrels did, and the prisons had a nasty reputation for “losing” their occupants. The few Fang blokes who had done time returned with fleas, scabies, and influenza, and they considered themselves damn lucky for it. For the most part, though, the Black Fang operated well enough that no one ever really got caught, and certainly the high-ranking members didn’t fear jail.

A shiver wriggled up Matthew's spine. The police frightened him badly enough with just their corruption. Jail scared him shitless. He had seen a few arrests in his life, seen the policemen pound down someone’s door and swarm into their flat like soldier ants, seizing a clumsy killer or a stupid dealer or someone who sort of matched a Fang member’s wanted poster and got turned in by a greedy neighbor. The worst he'd seen had lived a few doors down from his mother’s old flat, a broad-shouldered Bernese woman who fought like a twelve car pile-up when they came for her, an ugly mess of shouts and frantic sloppy punches until they beat her down with nightsticks. The thought of the cops dragging him to the back of a car like that, bloodied and shouting, shriveled his courage and left him sitting motionless in his taxi, white-knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel. He could end up there if he crossed paths with the police, like he would if he tripped up in finding Commissioner Griflet.

He resolutely slammed his foot on the pedal and burned rubber out of Etruria. Legault had given him a chance to chicken out and pass the job off onto someone used to doing dangerous work. If he wanted a bigger part in Fang work, if he wanted to put the fucked-up government in its place, if he wanted a lion’s share of the profits, then he couldn’t let a little childish worrying paralyze him. Legault had been breaking the law since he was old enough to shoplift food, and the police didn’t even know his nickname, let alone anything else. If Matthew played his cards right, he could fit in the same safe niche.

It took a while to drive to Badon. The rush of people heading to work cluttered the streets so terribly that even a storm of curses and insults couldn’t clear the way. Per usual, he could barely pass the bridge spanning the river that cleaved Lycia in two. Eventually, though, Matthew squeezed through like a cork popping out of a bottle, ending up squarely in the port of Badon.

He located the crime scene all too easily; the cops advertised their presence with loud shouts to stay back and an abundance of Warhorses, the boxy, white-wheeled cars that even a fool knew belonged exclusively to the police. Unable to get close in his clunky taxi, Matthew uneasily searched for somewhere to park. He didn’t want to leave his vehicle out of sight in a place like Badon. It belonged to the Fang, but he had neglected to learn the location of which shops belonged to them and provided safe haven. Instead, he’d have to park as close to the cops as he could without arousing suspicion and pray that someone didn’t smash in the windows and hotwire the cab.

Matthew settled on leaving his car in front of a bar called Grima's Grog. After a moment's thought, he hung his Fang dog tags off the rearview mirror, advertising to any would-be thieves exactly whom they messed with. His left hand on the flick knife in his pocket, he forced a slow casual gait as he made his way down the sidewalk, walking beside an enormous stevedore with a bandanna tied around his head. He wouldn’t pass as a member of the man’s crew to even the most unobservant, but he might pass for his mate. At the very least, he wouldn’t look like a pickpocket that would have to be questioned.

The sailor glanced askance at him, but he said nothing, perhaps rightfully assuming that he could tear Matthew in half like a parking ticket. They walked together for three blocks, but the dock worker headed off well before Matthew reached the organized chaos of the crime scene. It was mostly all cops, their purple uniforms blending together and wiping out all individuality. Two men in civilian clothes huddled in the middle, though, well beyond the yellow tape that read “CAUTION: DO NOT PASS” in black letters.

Matthew nearly ran into a man the size of a lorry, an impossibly heavy ballistics jacket covering him like a knight’s breastplate. The officer stared imperiously down at him.

“Please back up, sir. This is a crime scene,” the man said. Looking at his bad sideburns and the ugly scar on his face, Matthew couldn’t believe that anyone would assign him to deal with people. His mug would scare off even the fiercest woman.

“ _Those_ guys are beyond the tape,” Matthew whined, pitching his voice a little higher than usual. With any luck, he would be mistaken for someone younger, and therefore more likely to be underestimated.

The policeman didn’t even turn to look at the people behind him.

“They have council permission. If you’re just here to gawk, sir, please step back,” he patiently replied with the bored tone of one who had been repeating the same thing all morning.

Matthew obliged, not wanting to draw attention to himself by arguing. Curious as to who would have special permission to poke around, he stood on his tiptoes to try and get a better look.

A shock of hair as red as a police car’s lights immediately drew his attention. The frail-looking man didn’t seem much older than Guy, but his double-breasted suit looked like it cost more than most made in a month, and he, like many wealthy citizens as of late, wore a sleek little pistol at his side. His polar opposite stood at his side, a hulking bear of a man in a coat the size of a tent, a mean-looking shotgun gripped carelessly in one hand. They seemed terribly familiar to Matthew, but he couldn’t for the life of him recall where he’d seen them. School, maybe? Passengers in his cab? Neither seemed particularly likely—the two looked richer than bandit kings and most certainly had their own cars, and maybe even drivers. They were probably sons of business owners or governmental workers.

Matthew froze, wilting as he realized who they were. He’d seen their faces in the paper or on the telly often enough that he felt stupid for not having immediately recognized them. Hector Penn, brother of the chief consul, had a reputation for causing mayhem. He had no real power, but he and his friend had the sort of connections that made an aspiring politician salivate. The friend had to be Eliwood Lyonell, son of Pherae’s consul, an idealistic justice-monger without any street smarts at all. They had the law on their side, and any of the innumerable police present would jump to do their bidding, including the homely cop who watched Matthew with an unsavory look on his face.

He edged a little closer, trying not to push the cop’s patience but desperately wanting to eavesdrop.

“…bullets found…c’mon, Eliwood…Fang…”

He cursed under his breath, wishing he could hear better. Over the jabber of voices, nosy Lycians and working police alike, he could barely make out what the two said. Given that neither had police training, it likely wouldn’t be too useful, but Eliwood might parrot facts the police knew…

“…cut and dry…death is down…commission Ilian…them out…Harken…”

Grinding his teeth, Matthew turned and walked away. The snippets of dialogue he heard made little sense—only the part about blaming the Black Fang registered as anything other than disjointed nonsense. Sighing, he paced farther down the police perimeter, trying to get a good look at the reconstruction of the fight. Unfortunately, the steady Elibe drizzle had washed away the blood, and while he could see the white outline of where the officer had fallen, no other visible markers indicated where anyone else stood. Jaffar could have shot from almost anywhere, meaning that without a witness testimony, he wouldn't get anywhere. Jaffar was likely in no condition to talk, Harken was missing, and one of the officers on patrol was dead. Only one other person had seen the events that occurred.

“Fat lot of good that does you,” Matthew muttered to himself. Barring a kidnapping of his own, there was no way for him to get a testimony out of a police officer. As much as the thought tempted him, the danger outweighed any possible gains. Continuing his current line of investigation would likely suit him better, fruitless though it felt.

He glanced down at his watch, wondering how much of the day he had wasted hurrying around town on his wild goose chase. The clock only read “12:05,” to his surprise. He wouldn’t even have to pick up Raven from outside The Lion and Owl for another two hours. His stomach grumbled. Matthew hadn’t had a thing to eat since toast at six. Casting another regretful look at the inaccessible crime scene, he left to go fetch his cab and grab a bite.

A half hour’s time found him seated at an outdoor café named Nabata Sunrise. The wooden sign had a blue dragon silhouetted against a vibrant desert dawn. The café's sandwiches were cheap—they would have to be for anyone in that part of town to buy them—but good enough for Matthew's liking.

A piercingly loud voice interrupted his meal.

“It _can’t_ be Matthew!”

He winced, bad memories of second-year rising to mind, and wondered if he’d be ignored if he stayed silent.

No such luck. A girl with a long white dress and pink hair done up in pigtails took the seat across from him, grinning like a wolf that had stumbled across a helpless rabbit.

“Oh, wow! I can’t believe it’s you! I haven’t seen you since Election Day!” Serra chirped.

“Yeah, well, can you blame me?”

He could almost hear the whistling noise as his sarcasm flew over her head.

“I could very easily, you know, but I’m sure some tragic affliction must have prevented you from returning to me.”

“…I guess you could say that,” Matthew muttered, knowing the futility of arguing with Serra. He had made the mistake of assuming that her good looks would mitigate the nonstop stream of words that poured from her mouth, and so he had asked her on a date. It didn't exactly go well. To be honest, she wasn't actually that bad, but her sharp chatter grated on his nerves on the best of days. She clearly hadn't changed a lick in five years.

“Well, it’s not like I would’ve had time for you anyway. No offense, Matthew, but you’re a simple sort and you just wouldn’t have fit in with my important friends.”

“Who’re you claiming to know this time?” he asked. “Did your rich parents finally show up, or is it the chief consul now?”

She scowled, crossing her arms.

“Are you laughing at me? I should have you know that you’re absolutely heartless. And wrong! I do know the consul’s brother, I tell you. I was his secretary,” she sniffed.

“Was?”

“Yes. You don’t have to be mean about it. Why, it must have been my beauty that drove him to seek another secretary. He couldn’t work if he was distracted all day, you know.”

Matthew barked a short laugh. Her brows lowered dangerously and she said, “I’m sure you’re not doing any better. A guy like you doesn’t offer much to an employer.”

He nearly pointed out that the cab across the street was his, but the thought of his failure in the Black Fang rose to mind instead. They provided him his ticket out of a mediocre existence, so shouldn’t he consider it to be his real job?

“I suppose I’ve been found out. I hate to admit it, but I haven’t exactly faced what you’d call smashing success.”

“It’s a sad state we’re in if people like us are tossed by the wayside,” she agreed, completely oblivious to the fact that she had directly contradicted her prior statement.

“Blimey, so you haven’t picked up anything since?”

“Well, not exactly…The point is, someone will come crawling back soon! I put in applications!”

Matthew rolled his eyes again. It figured Serra wouldn’t just fess up and admit that she was unemployed with no hope of that changing. Her fool pride topped even Guy’s. She was probably living much as he did—splitting rent with one or two other people, hitting up the soup kitchens on months when coin was short.

“Mind, I won’t work some menial job,” she continued, blissfully unaware that he hadn’t been listening. “Or anything with weird hours, either. I’m a frail girl! I need work that isn’t too hard or hot or stressful!”

“Speak for yourself. Work’s work, even if you don’t like it. A bloke’s gotta put food on the table somehow.”

“Don’t you dare act all condescending, mister! I’m sure you’d kill for an easy answer, too!”

“Well, yeah, but—”

He froze, Serra’s inane statements planting an idea in his head. Of course! With the job market abysmal and most struggling just to cover the basics, she was right to say that someone would take drastic measures just for a little cash. If Harken’s kidnapper intended to hold him ransom, they could stand to lift themselves out of shitty blue-collar work. Even if a rival gang hadn't hacked up the commissioner and hurled the body into the harbor, someone might still have a solid motive for kidnapping....

“But?” Serra asked.

“But that’d be against the law,” he finished lamely, keeping his thoughts to himself. It would be worth looking into later, once he’d rid himself of the obnoxious girl across from him. He couldn’t full well go dashing off on some quest, anyway; increasing the number of suspects only made his job all the more challenging. Besides, Erk had already said that he wouldn't have the ability to really look into any ransom demands.

“Hmph, after Hector’s cruel treatment of me, it would serve him right,” Serra huffed.

He forced a laugh, making a big show of checking his watch.

“Well, it was…nice…seeing you again, but I’ve really got to go. My best customer’s waiting on me.”

“I thought you said you were unemployed!”

“Sorry, no, I didn’t. I’m unsuccessful, not a total bum. Good luck finding work, though!” he said cheerfully.

“Matthew, you deceitful—Hey!” she wailed after him.

He pretended not to hear her, considering himself safe when the rusty bulk of his car shielded him from view. Luckily, Serra didn’t follow him. She probably considered it “undignified” to chase after any man. Shaking his head at the ridiculousness of the circumstances that brought him to run into two old mates in the same day, he keyed the ignition and tore out of the there. After all, he hadn’t lied—Raven would need him soon enough that rushing off to Caelin made sense.

Matthew arrived with scant minutes to spare, heaving a sigh of relief. He didn’t want to face the consequences of angering someone as touchy as Raven. Per usual, the redhead flicked his cigarette butt on the street, opened the door, and settled onto the seat.

“Long day?” Matthew asked.

“Not today. Ryerde won, like I said. Looks like they’re shaping up to be good contenders for the playoffs. You’re out of luck, though.”

“Eh? What do you mean?”

“You like the Ostia Stalwarts, right? Their season has been terrible. They lost to the Ilian Pegasi. The _Pegasi_.”

“Oh, shut up. Araphen's team isn't much better.”

“I follow the Caelin Hawks,” he said with a shrug. “Though they’ve been shit for years.”

“Funny. Why does an Araphenian follow a crappy team from another district?”

Matthew didn’t even have to look in the rearview mirror to know that Raven was scowling.

“Can you just drive?”

“No need to get huffy. It was just a question.”

“Fair enough,” Raven said, but he didn't keep up with his usual small talk.

Matthew sighed.

“I really don't care about prying into your business. There's too much shit going on to make me waste my time.”

“Probably for the best here. Only way to stay out of trouble is keeping your head down and your mouth shut,” Raven grumbled.

“Tell me about it. Look the wrong way at a bloke and he'll either knife you or try to get a police reward out of you. No need to worry about me, though! My customers are basically sacred.”

Raven chuckled quietly.

“If they weren't, they'd just find someone else, but the sentiment's good, I guess.”

With that, Raven slapped a few coins on the center console and slipped out the door. Even after a solid month of driving the bloke around, Matthew still didn’t know what to think of him. He paid well, though, and that made up for his perpetual foul mood. As he had said to Serra, he would take any paying job, no matter what sort of crazies one had to deal with. That was why, even with his Fang assignment, he found himself lazily driving through the streets of Pherae. With the police crawling over Badon like maggots over rotting meat, business would royally suck until it cleared up.

Still, he drove home early, hoping to catch the tail end of the evening news—his car's radio was busted, and he wanted to hear any updates on the Griflet case. Traffic kept him so gridlocked, though, that he stumbled up the stairs and in the door well past six. Despite his lateness, he still managed to catch Guy before he left.

“Hey there!” he greeted as he shut the door behind him. “How’s your investigating going? Find out anything good?”

“I thought you said I was being dumb,” Guy said, brow furrowing in consternation.

“Just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to charge headfirst into Black Fang turf and shout a fair and honorable challenge at them,” he assured. It bothered him to lie, especially given the fact that Guy never did; it was some Sacaen tradition that he refused to drop, even when many had abandoned the old ways as the city changed. Matthew couldn't very well tell the truth if he wanted to pick any information out of his friend's findings, though.

“Oh. Well—Hey! I’m not that foolish! They’d shoot me before I could even move. You’ve taught me better.”

Matthew grinned.

“Good to hear. So, how’d your day go again?” he asked, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

“Didn’t get much done—boss actually refused to let me change hours,” Guy said. “Still, I stopped in to see one of my coworkers from Eubans’s. He works with the police now, so I thought maybe he’d share something with me, you know?”

“And?”

“Heath wouldn't tell me anything. I knew he couldn’t, but I figured maybe just a little…”

Matthew forced a smile to hide his disappointment. He had hoped that the case would fall neatly into his lap, the pieces assembled easily from a bit of amateur poking around and cribbed shamelessly from Guy. Then again, he reflected, Legault wouldn’t have assigned the job to him if he could solve it that easily.

“Cheer up. Heath probably didn’t have much to share, anyway.”

“I guess so,” Guy said doubtfully. He had likely harbored the same delusions of finding the commissioner before lunchtime. “What about you? Did you hear anything from one of your passengers?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Only that Pherae’s consul’s son was butting in on the crime scene.”

“Not surprising! He used to stop in the station every now and then, y’know? He and Harken were pretty close.”

“And even seeing how the police work, Harken still fired the only one of them doing anything?”

“Hey, calm down! I wasn’t doin’ much there anyway, and I’ve gotten a lot better workin’ for Eubans, honest. I’m sorry I haven’t been making as much since, if that’s the problem,” Guy said, emotion drawing out his accent. “But I promise, once I’ve solved this Harken thing, I’ll be set for life! Really!”

“You haven’t been working for Eubans that long. What if he cans you alongside your cousin?”

“Well, yeah, that’d be pretty bad,” he said, subdued. “But until Harken’s found—”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. I’m not. If I got upset over every government fuck-up, my life would be miserable,” Matthew said, borrowing Raven’s earlier sentiment.

“I wonder how Miss Watson is taking it.”

“Who?”

“Harken’s fiancée, Isadora. She was always real nice to me, even when I messed things up. You’d really like her. She was a bit like Erk’s mom.”

“Yeah?” Matthew asked distractedly. Maybe this Miss Watson could help him out. She’d know if Harken had anyone who would want rid of him, besides just the poor Lycians who would rather knife a cop than help him. It would provide a better lead than just loitering around the crime scene, in any case.

“I mean, Miss Reglay used to braid my hair, and it sure was better’n doing it myself, but Miss Watson helped me with learning the station duties. Taught me some stuff on the firing range, too.”

Matthew nodded absently. Frowning, Guy pulled his gun out, setting it on the table between them. It was police-caliber and looked like it had come fresh off the production line, unlike the secondhand 9mm Matthew had. His eyebrows rose to his hairline.

“Pulling steel on me, now? What gives?”

“I told you, Miss Watson was awful nice to me, see? She got me it when I got sacked. Said she didn’t want me to get hurt looking for work,” Guy replied. “She didn’t do the same when Oscar quit.”

“Guess she just took a liking to you.”

“I think it’s ‘cause she didn’t worry about Oscar,” he said. His expression was serious. “I wish she didn’t have to worry about me, either. That’s why…That’s why if this case goes badly, I think I’m gonna meet up with Rath and work with…with the consul of Caelin.”

“Guy, what happened?” he asked.

“Nothing. I was just thinking.”

Given Guy’s brutal honesty, Matthew accepted his words without pressing. It served as a good reminder that however rough and ruthless Elibe seemed to him, it treated Guy doubly worse. That Isadora had spent her own money to keep him safe raised her a notch in Matthew's esteem.

“How’re you going to be the best detective in the city if you quit? Did you give up your dream that easily?”

“No! I could get hired back on by the police. I'll keep working the rest of my life if I have to, but I'll do it!”

“Yeah? What makes you think they’d rehire a former employee?”

“Consul Lyn could—”

“I thought we discussed it this morning. Isn’t she as bad as the rest?”

“Maybe,” he reluctantly agreed. “But after the Taliver gang slaugh…slaughtered two hundred unarmed Lorca p-people…”

His voice shook so badly that he couldn’t continue, hands balled into fists at his sides. Elibe had scarcely known a worse massacre than the Lorca killings. The Taliver had burned the slums to the ground, hacking up the Sacaens that tried to slip out. Nearly the entirety of the Lorca people had been wiped out in one horrible night, but many of the Taliver still went unpunished. Despite being born in the Kutolah slums, Guy—like most Sacaens—claimed kinship with any that shared his heritage. It didn't surprise Matthew that the murders still made him tremble. Hell, Matthew himself couldn't help but shiver at the thought.

“…Even if she can’t fix the economy or nothin', she survived that, so I think she’d try to fix things for people like me. So even if you’re mad that I’d work for the government, Matthew, I'll still do it. Wouldn’t make much money to help Mum, but might make her proud anyway.”

“I see...Then good luck! If you’re set on doing something, I’m not gonna stop you. Just don’t do anything reckless, all right?”

“All right. It won't matter anyway, really. I'm going to solve this case!”

He didn’t have the heart to crush Guy’s dreams, and so Matthew said, “You’ll knock ‘em dead. Anyway, I’ve got to go—promised I’d meet some friends for a pint, and I only came back here to pick up my hat anyway.”

In truth, he wanted to hit the rec room and see what his fellow Fang members could tell him. He would have to keep it cool, as Legault suggested, but he’d be a fool to spurn their aid. Smiling blandly at Guy, he whisked his hat off the countertop, waved jauntily, and left. The cabbie didn’t expect many people to hang out, as Fang dealings went off most often during the evenings, but it would help him more than listening to Guy yammer on about the council.

A few familiar faces pleasantly surprised him. Lloyd and Aion, a greasy-haired man with a weasely sort of face, played billiards with a third man, who stood with his back to Matthew.

“Seeing you two days in a row, huh?” Lloyd said with a grin. “Don’t you have anything better to do, kid?”

“I could say the same to you,” he countered. The smile slipped off his face as the third man turned to look at him.

He looked perfectly average, with untidy brown hair and fierce, dark eyes, his face pinched as if he were tired from a usual workday. His reputation spoke volumes for him, though: Jerme, the Death Kite, known for unmatched brutality. His yellowed teeth flashed in a grimace of a smile. The only redeeming trait Death Kite had was the fact that Nergal kept him hooded and jessed, only rarely allowing him to leave the glove and sink his talons into prey.

“Mind if I join?” Matthew asked with feigned nonchalance. He could deal with Jerme’s presence.

“As soon as we start next game,” Aion said, sinking the ten ball into the corner pocket.

“What brings you out here?” Lloyd asked.

“Eh, just trying to get away from my flatmate. He keeps going on about how the Black Fang had something to do with that police chief disappearing. Bloody annoying, if you ask me.”

Lloyd’s arm jerked, sending the cue ball ricocheting wildly off of the sides.

“Who gave him that idea?”

“The news, of course,” Aion answered for him. “Half the channels are slandering us 24/7, and the other half are quick to jump on the bandwagon whenever anything happens.”

“What exactly happened? I’m afraid I’m a bit fuzzy on the details. Been working all day, y’know, so I missed the shows,” Matthew lied, grabbing a pool cue off the rack.

“It isn't our place to question things. No one knows the details,” Lloyd said, although Matthew knew that he didn't tell the whole truth. He wished he could get Lloyd alone for a good chat, but he would need to wait a while.

“That’s not true.”

The three turned to look at Jerme, his nasal voice cutting into their conversation.

“Yeah?” Matthew asked.

“Jaffar—” he said the name like one would say “syphilis”“—was there. Assuming that no-talent cretin watched what was going on, he could tell you.”

He grinned unpleasantly.

“That is, if he hadn’t been shot, he could’ve. He couldn’t even kill a newborn kitten right now. Instead, he’s lounging around the safe house, while the rest of us are doing the real work.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t say Jaffar’s the only one spending most of his time on his back,” Aion laughed.

“What do you mean?” Matthew asked.

Lloyd jerked his thumb towards the couch. A woman Matthew hadn’t noticed before lay on her side, her pale face worn. As he craned his neck to get a better look, she sluggishly lifted her head. Short hair the color of spilled wine only served to accentuate her excessive pallor, and her overlarge eyes seemed to strip him of his secrets. He looked away first. There was something not wholly normal about her, and from the others’ casual avoidance, Matthew presumed it was important.

“Who’s she?”

“Ephidel’s new mistress. I almost pity the girl,” Lloyd said.

“So she’s not one of us?” he asked warily.

“An initiate, actually,” she answered. Her words held a certain calm pride that almost made him doubt Lloyd. She could be dangerous. “I’ve been here for two months.”

Matthew uneasily looked to Lloyd for answers. He had that effect on people. They trusted his leadership, and he, in turn, took care his pack. Small wonder he had chosen White Wolf as his title.

“Aye. In the Fang for two months. Only with Ephidel for a day or two.”

Matthew’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he turned back to the others. He didn't need to concern himself with Ephidel's latest whore.

“So, none of you know anything about that cop?”

“For Elimine’s sake, Matthew, if you’re that damn curious, go pester Hurricane. I’m sure he’d just love to chat with you,” Aion snapped.

“Ah, good point! I doubt he's got anything better to do, anyway,” he said. With a wave, he turned and walked out. Driving the length of Lycia thrice over on his moronic quest had worn him out, and he wanted Legault to just fess up that he had concocted the whole thing as a joke. Legault could have his laugh, Matthew could get on with his life, and the case could fall back into the police's lap. Neat and tidy.

As he drove to The Full Moon, he wondered how he’d been thick enough to actually believe Legault. A whole day's worth of investigation with no better lead than a tentative connection to one Isadora Watson only served to back up his irritation.

He stormed through the doors of the pub, wearing his sullen mood like the chief consul’s best furs. A quick glance around the room revealed no sign of Legault, however. If he wanted to make a joke of things, he clearly intended to see how long Matthew would continue to buy it. His absence, though, made Matthew wonder if he actually did have good intentions. Maybe he'd even meant the whole thing.

“Greetings, Jan!” Matthew began, leaning against the counter. “Have you seen Hurricane around?”

“Not since yesterday,” he replied. “I’ll tell him you’re looking for him, if you want?”

“That’d be nice. Tell him it’s important, would you?”

“Of course. What kind of business are you on today?”

Matthew shook his head.

“Oh, it's nothing much. I just have a message to pass on. Doing Hurricane's legwork, as usual.”

“You can write it down and leave it here for him. Seal it, if you want,” Jan said.

Not a bad idea, he thought, and if he had more information, he just might. For the time being, he waved Jan off, sinking tiredly into a barstool. Maybe Legault really meant for him to do the whole thing on his own. Matthew doubted it, though. His mentor had always taken a hands-on approach towards him, acting as lookout or accomplice for most of Matthew's petty crimes. It wasn't like Legault to duck out all of the sudden. Still, he was frequently busy, and more likely than not, he was poking around in someone else's business.

Resigning himself to Legault's absence, Matthew ordered a pint of bitter light beer and settled in for the evening.


	3. The Initiate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is a list of what I should have been, but I'm not_  
>  _This is a list of what I should have seen, but I'm not seeing_  
>  _The look in your eyes as his fingers are unzipping your dress_  
>  _And it makes you shiver_  
>  _I'm just turning away from what I shouldn't see_  
>  _Because I am not anything_  
>  \-- _Cowboys_ , Counting Crows

Matthew headed out the door almost before Guy even woke up. It would take time to track down Isadora’s address, even with the tricks he had prepared for just such an occasion. He wished he had even the slightest idea where she lived. She probably hailed from Pherae, since her fiancé lived there, and Isadora was a good, traditional Pheraen name. Matthew didn't know, though. His plan relied on a lot of assumptions, but short of asking Guy, he had nothing better to work from.

He walked into Pherae’s post office as the sun finally peeked over the tall buildings. A scruffy man with an eye patch slept behind the counter. Beyond him, not a soul stirred.

Matthew stepped over, clearing his throat purposefully.

The man let out a low snore.

“’Scuse me,” he said. “Hey. Hey! I’ve got a question!”

Cracking a jaw-popping yawn, the man opened his good eye a sliver. His chin still rested on his chest, and he kept his feet up on his desk.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got to post a thank-you to someone, but I don’t have her address. Clumsy, I know, but I was hoping you’d be able to help me,” Matthew said, following his rehearsed speech.

“And you don’t have this letter with you?”

“Well, uh, no. I forgot it,” he muttered, pretending to look chagrined. It wouldn’t do to have a fake letter, because then he’d actually have to mail it.

The postman arched an eyebrow.

“Really, now.”

“Yeah, I…I know it wasn’t very smart. Could you give me her address so I can get that fixed?”

“Tell you what. If you give me the letter, I’ll help you address it,” he said. After a pause, he added, “Maybe.”

“Shove off! It's just a thank-you!”

“So you want me to waste valuable work time so you can…” he trailed off, yawning. “Can stalk down some girl? If you need her address that badly, go to the library. Get a phone book.”

Matthew nearly smacked himself in the face. Never mind his brilliant plan. The postman had neatly outsmarted him without even trying.

“Well, thanks for your time,” he said, trying to contain his irritation at himself.

“Sure.”

The man had already settled back in his chair and shut his eyes.

It only took a few minutes to stop by Arcadia Library and flip through the pages of Pherae’s phonebook. To his relief, she turned up: 22 Clear Fortune Way, almost within spitting distance of the post office he had just left. As he was about to leave, he took a look at his petrol level and swore. His cab had a few miles at best in it, and at an arm and a leg for a liter, he wasn’t looking forward to paying. Legault’s mad job had burned through his week’s allotment in a day and a half. Growling another curse, he drove to the nearest station. By the time Matthew had a full tank and drove to Isadora's, he was digging his nails into the steering wheel and grinding his teeth.

He was still fuming when he parked on the side of the road, slamming the door shut behind him. One look at the house made him stop short, however.

Growing up on the outskirts of Ostia, Matthew had seen his share of houses: rundown, single-story shitheaps with sagging roofs that looked like they were frowning. Hell, he had even lived in one, moldering wooden siding and all. Looking up at the white molding and red brick, he found himself gaping and feeling woefully inadequate. Never had Guy mentioned that Isadora lived amidst more money than Matthew would hold in ten lifetimes. Stretches of grass yawned between her house and the equally extravagant ones on either side, and an actual garage sat at the end of a paved driveway. Her manse could easily house a dozen families with room to spare. To Matthew, it looked like the city had grown around her strip of carefully-tended lawn, preserving a slice of time from generations past.

He looked down at his plain green shirt and old jeans and wondered if she would even allow him to set foot on the property. Matthew wilted under the sheer magnitude of it, stuffing his hands morosely in his pockets.

“Hey, don't sweat it, Elliot,” he said to himself. He'd stolen from people that rich before, and money didn't make her any fiercer or smarter than him.

With that thought, he made his way up the driveway. The door was a slab of oak thick enough to stop a bullet, and the knocker was equally flamboyant, a bronze eagle holding a ring in its beak. Swallowing thickly, he lifted the ring and knocked twice.

A well-dressed young man with auburn hair answered. He looked like the sort of average bloke that Matthew might ask to get a drink with, his teeth a little crooked and his smile wide and open.

“Hey there,” he said.

“Ah, sorry, I must’ve gotten the wrong place,” Matthew said, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m looking for Miss Watson.”

“You’ve got the right place, but who the heck are you? Are you with the station?”

Realizing how easy it would be to catch him in his lie, he shook his head.

“No, I’m Matthew Elliot. Guy Kitsai’s flatmate.”

The man cocked his head to the side.

“Is something wrong with Guy?” he asked.

“No, no, don’t worry! He’s doing just fine. I just wanted to see Ms. Watson.”

The doorman deliberated for a moment, his freckled face screwed up in thought. Matthew impatiently crossed his arms.

“’Fraid not,” he said at last. “She’s got a lot going on right now, and, really, you’re a total stranger.”

“I am not!” he protested. “I told you, I’m Guy’s—”

“Look,” he whispered, leaning closer. “You seem pretty fine to me, and, y’know, I’d let you in my flat if you’re Guy’s mate. But this isn’t my place, and Miss Isadora isn’t exactly in the mood for anything but some really, really stellar news. You aren’t here to tell us really, really stellar news, are you?”

Matthew paused, wondering if he could bluff his way in. Isadora’s butler didn’t seem all too bright, and Matthew could easily fabricate something about Harken. He thought for a minute, but as the facts stood, he knew nothing and Isadora had police information.

“I'm sorry to say it, but no,” he said.

The doorman shrugged apologetically.

“Sorry, then. D’you want me to tell her you came by?”

“Nah, if she’s upset, I wouldn’t want to bother her…Actually, could you tell her that Guy sends his condolences? He’s positively distraught over this thing with Harken.”

“We all are,” he replied. “Miss Isadora’s…Well, I shouldn't talk about it. It's not proper. It was nice meeting you, though!”

“Yeah, anytime. See you around.”

He trudged back to his car, shabby trainers dragging on the paving stones. Legault would laugh his ass off if he heard about that little exchange. Hell, Legault could’ve talked the butler into letting him in without having to lie, and he had style enough that he wouldn’t look out of place in Isadora’s decadent house. He wouldn’t have dropped the one damn lead he had down the drain just because of poor planning. Matthew kicked the front tire of his cab and slammed the door behind him. According to his watch, it was past one and he still hadn’t accomplished a damn thing.

He tore out of Pherae, making a beeline for the edge of Bern. The district, a sprawling mess of a place that was nearly large enough to be a city in its own right, had grown from a trading post to the center of economic inequality. While Etruria took measures to at least keep its streets clean, Bern thrived by the obscenely rich crushing the miserably poor. The streets were far more orderly the men that lived on them, the buildings huddled against each other as if to fight off the damp chill, and refuse of both the human and inanimate sort cluttered the sidewalks. Yet despite the grime and savagery, Bern’s people lived beneath the clawed foot of the law, choosing to obey the mad king’s edicts rather than step out of line. The infamous military had not seen true combat in over a century, but its soldiers patrolled the city in lieu of the police. They retaliated against law-breaking with the same force they would use on enemy combatants, as well. Bern had no prisons.

Matthew drove past the alley vermin with little more than a grimace. Those people did nothing to overthrow the selfish King Desmond. They didn’t participate in the rebellion, join the freedom fighters, join the Black Fang. Even with the military’s teeth poised over their heads like a vengeful beast’s, Brendan Reed and his fellow malcontents had founded the organization Matthew presently worked under. Bern had yet to escape from its king’s clutches, of course, but the Fang’s presence had long been a burr under Desmond’s saddle. As Matthew pulled up outside a building graffitied with the image of a blue crow, he took consolation in the knowledge that his gang still operated under the government’s nose.

The little building only offered a couple cots and a small supply of bottled water and food. The real draw was out back, in a weedy courtyard behind the building, where someone had set up targets for firing practice. Some prankster had painted the cutouts to resemble King Desmond, Consul Uther, and Queen Hellene; Jerme, a manic grin on his face, had already put a bullet through the heads of each. His accuracy left Matthew queasy—shot after shot, he struck the targets’ vital areas, neatly bagging kill after imaginary kill.

Determined not to let Jerme scare him off, Matthew drew his gun, chambered a round, and squared off against the rightmost cutout. Jerme’s laughed cracked in a high sharp noise that would raise the hackles a dog.

“Nice pea-shooter. You'll never manage a good kill with that little thing. Though you would see lots and lots of beautiful red blood spilled before they died...”

“It's killed fine enough,” he lied with feigned joviality as he took a shot. He’d always had a tendency to aim high, and the bullet struck the stone wall over the cutout’s head.

“You’re awful at this. Even worse than that no-talent Jaffar,” Death Kite scoffed. He didn’t continue on his usual mocking tirade, however; from that and the glazed look in his beady eyes, he was clearly high again. Matthew found him nigh insufferable at the best of times, but all but the most stubborn Fang members could at least tolerate him while doped up. To Matthew's understanding, that was most of the time when Jerme didn't have work.

“Hey, front-line work has never been my forte,” he returned.

“No shit.”

A woman walked out of the building, carrying a box of rounds and saving Matthew the embarrassment of fumbling over another response.

Jerme took one look at her, spat on the ground, and holstered his gun.

“Bah! I have better things to do with my time,” he called, storming out.

Seeing the woman tempted Matthew to follow his lead. Ephidel’s mistress had a bit more color now that she’d had a good night’s sleep and had stepped out of the electric indoor lighting, but she still looked fey and feral. She watched him warily for a second, but she didn't say a word.

She loaded her gun and took a balanced stance, bracing with both hands. With a sharp crack, her bullet pierced the target’s chest.

“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” Matthew blurted out.

She arched a delicate eyebrow while just as delicately putting another round through the cutout.

“My father,” she replied.

Grimacing, Matthew took another shot, clipping the edge of the target. He embarrassedly lowered the weapon; he was only making a fool of himself in front of the boss’s whore.

“I'm a self-taught man,” he said, attempting to explain his inaccuracy.

“I’m guessing you aren’t very high-ranking. What’s your nickname?” she asked, firing another perfect round.

“Higher ranking than you,” he countered. “Being the Fang’s gopher is better’n being Ephidel’s toy.”

The woman glared, putting up her gun as forcefully as if she intended to bludgeon the holster with it.

“I don't believe I asked for your opinion on that,” she said, her expression neutral.

Matthew nodded.

“No, I got you. I didn't need to bring that up. Looks like we started on the wrong foot. What do you say we try again?”

She smiled, close-lipped. He couldn't tell if she meant it or if it was forced.

“All right.”

“I'm Matthew Elliot. I'm a simple thief, really, but the Fang's a lot more fun than being homeless,” he offered.

“Leila Beckett,” she said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Any reason I’ve never seen you before? White Wolf says you’ve been here awhile.”

“I tend to keep to myself.”

As if she considered the conversation over, Leila drew her gun again. Matthew didn't wholly buy her response; he'd seen most of the recruits, even the teenagers playing at adulthood, and he knew he'd never seen Leila at the rec room or The Full Moon or even at the safe house, at the Fang meetings most every member attended. He certainly would've remembered her; it was hard to ignore the way her eyes tracked his movements, like a cat watching a yardbird. At the very least, he'd remember her style, what with her unfashionable asymmetric haircut and the scandalously short skirt.

“Do you just not like the Fang?” he pressed.

“The Black Fang put a roof over my head,” she replied simply.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

A sardonic smile touched her lips for a second.

“No, I suppose I didn’t,” she said, pausing for a moment. “I don’t dislike the Fang, if that’s your concern.”

“But you don’t like them,” he continued. He could hear something not wholly honest in her voice, and he knew he'd caught onto part of it. Matthew had never tried fishing, but he supposed the give and take adequately mirrored chasing a trail. She didn't sound defensive, at least—merely a hair annoyed.

“I’m here and I’m doing my job.. My personal feelings have no bearing on the matter.”

“Most people here are proud of what we do. I’m just curious, is all.”

“Then, yes, I do like the group. Though some of you have better things to do, I think.”

“That’s not true,” he said.

Leila lowered her gun once more. She stared at him with a quizzical intensity that made him fidget.

“Most of us didn’t have anything better to do, either. Did you think you’re the only one who missed out on the sudden surge of jobs or something?”

She shook her head, but she stood on the balls of her feet as if preparing to strike at any second. Matthew wondered uneasily what a woman like her had done before joining the Black Fang. More likely than not, she had been a petty criminal, like him. A pickpocket, maybe, or a mugger, although he’d never heard of a woman taking up the latter. Between her bearing and her marksmanship, though, he wouldn't be surprised if Leila was dangerous.

“I didn't mean better things to do than working with the Black Fang. Although some do appear to be better-off than others. Mad Dog, White Wolf, and Blue Crow…They don’t need this, do they?”

“The city needs us, don't you think? It’s coming apart at the seams, and no one but us does a thing about it.”

“You know the government is—”

“Failing you, me, and everyone else, yeah. Cripes, I can't sneeze without getting snot on some way they've failed us. There isn't a person here who wasn't screwed over in some way, you know? Soaring Hawk got canned for being Sacaen in this city, Owl dared teach some nuance in politics instead of just blindly praising the king, and I'm, well, not a very...robust guy. Hard to get work, now.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“You understand, though. You're one of us.”

“Ah...If only the rest of you thought the same.”

“Hm? What do you mean?”

“In a lot of ways, they've not treated me like one of the Black Fang since Sir Ephidel pushed me into...this.” She gestured at herself, disgust crinkling her button nose. “I didn't get much of a choice in the matter.”

Matthew swallowed, pain tugging at his chest. He hadn't heard that tidbit of information. To his knowledge, most of Ephidel's conquests came willingly in hopes of gaining favors or privileges. He'd never heard of someone getting forced into it. It struck him as horribly wrong, and he felt bad for the way he and the others had dismissed her the other night.

“Sorry to hear that. I really am.”

“I should go,” Leila said, pulling her jacket closer around her as if to deflect Matthew’s curiosity.

“I didn’t mean to mock you, okay?” At her hesitation, he said, “We’re both Black Fang. Yeah, you're one of our newest members, but people should still help you, not push you around. We’re like a family.”

She smiled wanly.

“Okay. I’ll see you around, then.”

“Sure thing!”

Left alone with the abandoned box of bullets, Matthew spent the better part of an hour practicing. It wouldn’t do much good if he cornered Harken’s kidnapper only to take a shot to the chest and die on the spot. He couldn’t very well make up for years of mediocrity in a few minutes of firing, but any small improvement to his marksmanship would be valuable, especially with him so short on leads.

As he took shot after shot, thankful that Leila favored a similar gun to his, Matthew mulled over what his next step would be. Nearly anyone had incentive to kidnap the commissioner, and running madly around and hoping to stumble upon the perpetrator had less a chance of succeeding than simply praying that the answer would fall out of the sky. It didn’t help that Matthew had no idea if a ransom demand had been made; once again, that brought him back to Isadora, the only officer he knew Harken had a connection to. Equally, no one had reported finding the man’s body, and although that didn’t necessarily mean he still lived, Matthew would have to bet that way.

“Great,” he muttered under his breath. “That only leaves half the bloody city.”

Or at least, half the city had a motive. That didn’t mean they had the capability to kidnap an officer, he realized. Many would be unarmed and unable to dispatch Jaffar as easily as the shooter had. Hell, Matthew would bet that only a handful of people could have neutralized the chief of police and Jaffar within the span of a minute, and as most of them were in either the Fang or the police, that number was much lower. Perhaps a rich citizen with a bone to pick had hired out an assassin, such as the notorious “fireman” that Nergal couldn’t afford to recruit. He might have to look into stopping by one of the fireman's haunts and trying to to buy some information, steep though his rates ran.

Thinking bitterly of the eleven gold he and Guy had between them, Matthew dismissed the idea. Even if the fireman knew anything, it would cost more than that to find out. Besides, it could just as easily have been any of a dozen other mercenaries, from disgraced Bernese soldiers to back alley cutthroats of uncanny skill. Murder was one of the few businesses that thrived in Elibe, after all.

He put up his gun and trudged back to his car. Beyond Isadora, he still had no leads. With evening falling and his stomach snarling like a caged animal, he needed to retire to his flat. He only had four days left until Legault’s time limit expired—Matthew knew that if he didn’t stumble upon something quickly, he would never make it in time. A failure, he would be relegated back to the same useless jobs he had done before.

Guy had already left when he got home, probably out puzzling over the same problems Matthew had. The cabbie’s one consolation was that Guy still chased his foolish idea that the Black Fang were responsible; he would never succeed that way.

Matthew reheated leftover couscous and popped the top off of a bottle of beer. He was mildly surprised that there was still liquor left in the flat, since he couldn't remember the last time he'd bought in. It was in all likelihood Guy's, since Matthew didn’t often keep anything more than a hidden bottle of brandy around. He would have to pick up a six-pack later to pay him back.

As he ate, Matthew considered going down to The Full Moon to catch up with Legault. He summarily decided against it—anything that held Legault up for one day would likely occupy him for a second one. He wished that he could talk to his mentor, though. No matter how melodramatic Legault could be, he had a certain knack for seeing the truth of things and connecting dots that no one else could. Matthew knew that he was not nearly as acutely logical as Legault was, and it at at hime sometimes.

He sighed. Bereft of any actual work, he did the dishes and headed off to bed. He fell asleep almost immediately.

* * *

 

He headed out early to catch people on their way to work, pocketing a bit of coin to make up for hours spent off the job. Soon enough, though, the nine to five crowd had all dispersed, and he needed to return to Legault's job. Matthew made his way to the rec room, parked in the lot behind the building, and walked on in.

The Reed brothers sat on opposite sides of the card table, with Lloyd leaning back in his chair and Linus hunched over a fan of cards. Like his brother, Linus flaunted his gun, a mean-looking bullpup carbine slung along his back. Unlike his brother, he preferred not to wear a shirt, his jacket worn open to show off his muscles and the black tattoo on his chest. Ursula and Teodor filled the other two seats, wearing the same bored expressions they’d had three days prior.

Leila sat on the couch with her back to the group. Even ostracized from them, Leila didn’t wholly separate herself; she hadn't turned on the little radio beside her, and she seemed to be listening to the other talk. Matthew felt a pang of sympathy for the woman, but it wasn’t his job to take care of her, not with three of the Four Fangs sharing the room.

He took his favorite seat on the packing crate and put on his best grin.

“Hey, kid!” Linus boomed. “Haven’t seen you in a while!”

“Yeah, I’ve been doing a spot of work for Hurricane. How about you guys?”

“Following orders out in Lycia,” Lloyd replied, scratching at his goatee.

“Igor and I trashed some cop cars the other day. Good luck chasin’ us if they don’t have the transportation for it!” Linus said. He flashed his teeth in a great snarl of a smile, his genial eyes lit up.

“But what sort of stuff does old Legault have you doing?” Lloyd asked.

“I’ve got to talk to some Isadora woman for information. It’s bloody useless, anyway. She won’t let me in her damn house,” Matthew sighed.

“Isadora, you say?” Ursula said, taking a long drag from her cigarette. “You can’t mean Isadora Watson.”

“Yeah, actually. Small world, huh?”

“You’re not going to find very much luck getting Black Fang help from her. Isadora wouldn’t take a biscuit from the jar without permission, let alone assist ne’er-do-wells like us.”

“…How do you know?”

“They grew up together, stupid. Don’t you ever listen to Ursula?” Linus said.

“What is it you need to talk about?” she asked.

Matthew hesitated, thinking about Legault’s insistence that he keep his mission something of a secret.

“Her fiancé,” he said after a moment.

Lloyd grinned, and Linus howled with laughter. He elbowed Teodor in the ribs hard enough to knock the thin man off his chair. Teodor didn't even make a sound, just brushing himself off and taking his seat again.

“What does Harken have to—Oh,” Ursula murmured. “That. And you absolutely must speak to her about this?”

“Yeah, I’ve got to see her. It’s important.”

“Then I suppose I could put in a good word for you. As long as you don’t mention the Black Fang, she’ll understand; as far as she knows, I’m still living alone because of a fight with my parents, and Isadora thinks I’ve been lawfully working since then. If you say anything to let her know otherwise, you’ll have brought danger to me and to the Black Fang. The consequences will be dire. Remember that.”

“I wouldn't dream of forgetting it,” he replied. “So, you’ll help me out?”

“If it weren’t for Hurricane assigning you to this, I’d say no. It’s too risky, too stupid. But he tends to know what he’s doing, so…yes.”

“I am curious as to what information an officer would have for you,” Teodor interrupted.

“I’m not exactly sure,” Matthew truthfully answered. “I’m just following Hurricane’s orders.”

Teodor didn’t seem too happy about that, but he accepted it without an argument. Legault's status quashed most arguments, considering he was second only to the Four Fangs. Teodor's curiosity seemed passing, but Lloyd's grey eyes bored into his, silently demanding answers.

“So, when do you think she’ll see me?” Matthew asked, avoiding Lloyd's stare.

“Tomorrow. I doubt Isadora would spurn a request of mine, but don’t expect anything today,” Ursula replied with a shrug.

Matthew grimaced, but he hadn't expected much else. The fact that he'd even get to speak with the policewoman at all was a blessing in and of itself.

“Has anyone heard from Angel of Death yet?” he asked.

“Oh, that eerie guy? Why are you going on about him?” Linus replied, slapping his cards down on the table. “Heard he’s still tied up off in our Bern safehouse.”

“How the hell did he get to Bern? I thought he was shot pretty badly.”

“No idea. You ask him when you see him, okay?”

Mulling things over, Matthew decided that it was sound logic. Jaffar likely hadn’t caught a glimpse of Harken’s kidnapper, or Legault wouldn’t even have bothered to assign this mockery of a job to him, but any information would help, especially if Isadora didn’t offer any leads. Of course, that meant contact with Angel of Death, and that brought a shiver up his spine. Matthew had only talked to Jaffar once, but the memory stuck firmly in his head. The man made an owl’s wings seem loud, a lion’s fangs seem safe, and a shark seem restrained. He always looked less like a civilized human and more like a wild beast trained to follow society’s rules. Even injured, he wasn't someone Matthew wanted to cross.

The cabbie wasn't in any hurry, though, not with much of the Fang assembled. Instead, he scooted closer to the table.

“Hey, why not let me in on this game? I'd love to play.”

Both Reed brothers simultaneously stood up.

“We’ve got a meeting with the subcommander of the Bernese army in about an hour,” Lloyd explained.

“Come on, it’s nothing to get from here to there. Why not play some more?”

“Can’t. We were told this is huge,” Linus said. “I heard we might pick up a chunk of the Wyvern Knight division.”

“Since when did Black Fang ‘pick up’ the military?” Ursula demanded. “Lady Sonia mentioned nothing of the sort to me.”

“Well, y’know…” Linus trailed off, frowning.

“A wolf doesn’t question the alpha’s judgment. We are the jaws that carry out the Fang’s needs. You know that, Blue Crow,” Lloyd said sharply.

Subdued, she set her cards down; Lloyd never used anyone’s nickname unless he was serious. As the highest ranking original Fang member, he had the very real ability to silence those who disobeyed. From the look of bitter disappointment on his face, though, he agreed wholeheartedly with Ursula's protests. It made Matthew uneasy, as well. The Fang didn't work with the government, ever. Why would they start now?

He shrugged it off after a moment's thought. Rounding up non-corrupt members of the military who hated the way the king ran things would bolster their forces and bring more like-minded individuals into the group. The Fang didn't usually judge people by their backgrounds, after all. Matthew waved goodbye to the Reed brothers as they walked out.

“We’re down to three,” Ursula said. “I’d better be going.”

“Hey, why not let Leila in?” Matthew asked.

Hearing her name, she looked over at him, surprise stamped plainly on her face. Ursula crinkled her nose as if she smelled something unpleasant, and even Teodor looked questioningly at him.

“I haven’t had a chance to play yet,” he explained.

The other two traded glances, but they didn't raise any objections.

“Great. Feel like joining?” Matthew called.

Leila didn’t look at the other two, keeping her gaze fixed firmly on Matthew as she came to sit across from him. He knew she was not so naïve as to assume the others would do more than begrudgingly tolerate her; her defiant expression dared them to call her out as she took the hand Teodor dealt. The situation struck Matthew as painfully wrong in a way that the Reed brothers' mission had not.

“So, Shadow Hawk, what have you been doing?” he asked instead of voicing his concerns.

“Owl and I were attempting to build a library. Only of books you people would find noteworthy, gun magazines and whatnot, but a library nonetheless.”

“And you, Ursula?”

“Nothing much right now…Though that reminds me. There’s something I need to tell you about this Isadora arrangement…in private, if you don’t mind,” she replied. Her tone did not invite questioning. Matthew drew to his feet and followed her into the drizzly back lot.

“All right. Hit me.”

“I think that someone close to the police is hunting us,” she said in a low voice. “Think about it: someone nearly kills Angel of Death, puts a bullet in Soaring Hawk, uses Isadora’s fiancé to bait a trap…”

“What do you mean, put a bullet in Soaring Hawk?”

“Yesterday. He was poking around in the consul's business in Pherae, and someone shot him in the arse. He should be fine, but…Doesn’t it all feel connected? If we got careless…”

“We’ll all die,” he finished. “All right. What’s this have to do with Isadora?”

“You’re shoving your nose into Harken’s little vanishing act. No, don’t deny it—I’m not stupid. All I’m saying is that the other people that snooped around ended up nearly dead, and they're a lot tougher than you. We don't need people to die without cause,” she said.

“I'm just doing Hurricane's work. I'm sure he wouldn't have me doing anything too dangerous.”

Ursula frowned.

“Lady Sonia is worried about him. He's been acting odd lately. Making his own moves, talking to people the Quinns' backs...”

“Oh, come off it. Hurricane's always a bit odd. He's more loyal than anyone,” Matthew scoffed.

“Very well. I just thought I'd give you a warning. There are two kinds of people in this world, Matthew: the strong and the weak. Try not to get mixed up with the latter.”

With that, she returned to the building. Matthew dragged his feet as he followed her. Her words bothered him. Who didn't trust Legault? He had helped found the Black Fang, one of the first members save the Reeds themselves. Brendan Reed had caught him trying to pick his pocket and had nearly bashed his head in before Legault's wit won him over. He was everyone's best mate. Why did Ursula and Sonia worry about him? Did they know something Matthew didn't?

As with so many things in recent days, Matthew didn’t have answers to those questions. He reclaimed his seat across from Leila, trying to pretend that Ursula had said nothing important. She didn’t say anything, likely unwilling to risk Ursula’s anger, but she eyed him beseechingly. Matthew shrugged. Leila didn't know Legault, and likely didn't know anything about the shootings. She might have picked up some tidbits from Ephidel, though, that could help him out. But with her reluctance to talk about Ephidel the day before, Matthew doubted it.

“I find I have lost interest in cards,” Teodor announced, tucking the deck into one of his numerous coat pockets.

“And I should get on with contacting Isadora,” Ursula added in a tone that said she only wished to be excused.

“But I didn’t even get to—”

“We’ll play some other time, kid. Don't fail us,” she said.

The two left without further ado, leaving Matthew alone with a pile of worthless poker chips and a sullen initiate.

“I wish they wouldn’t pretend they had reasons to go,” Leila said. “Look at the way Blue Crow rushed out. She had no appointment to keep, nor would any policewoman even be home at this hour.”

“Shadow Hawk is no fun, anyway. You're better off without him.”

Leila shrugged.

“It's the principle of the thing.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “You're not going to be too happy, though. I actually do have somewhere to be.”

“Where are you going?”

He thought for a moment about Ursula’s warning. Legault's mission might prove dangerous. For all he knew. Leila was involved in that danger. She had just turned up at the same time as the whole mess had started, after all. Matthew didn't think it likely, though. She'd joined the Black Fang the month before, and, great marksman or not, she didn't look too ready to attack. Her cheeks seemed ghostly white in the fluorescent lighting, and she kept her yellow jacket pulled tightly around her thin form. Besides, with how the others had been treating her, Matthew didn’t think it likely that she would backstab the one man who had shown her any kindness.

It nonetheless came as a complete surprise when he said, “Bern. You can tag along, if you want.”

“Bern? Why?”

“...We're going to see the Angel of Death.”


	4. The Assassin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Bring home the boys and scrap, scrap metal the tanks_  
>  _Get hitched, make a career out of robbing banks_  
>  _Because the world is just a teller and we are wearing black masks_  
>  _"You broke our spirit" says the note we pass_  
>  \-- _The Phoenix_ , Fall Out Boy

“You must be joking,” Leila said.

“I almost wish,” Matthew replied. “We'll be fine, though. I've heard Angel of Death is pretty calm.”

He cracked what he hoped was a reassuring smile and walked out to the car. Matthew didn’t really expect her to follow him; the invitation had only been made out of politeness, some meager effort to make up for the breach in Fang etiquette the others had committed. Yet Leila gamely trotted after him, seemingly unfazed by the prospect of meeting the best of the best of assassins.

“Nice car,” she said as Matthew struggled with the broken front door.

“Hey, it gets the job done. Do you have a bike or anything? We can toss it in the back.”

“No.”

The word carried bitter nuances. No, she couldn’t afford one, because no, she didn’t have a real job. Most didn't, of course, if they had joined the Fang, but Leila still held onto her pride. He found it a tad foolhardy, but it wasn't his place to judge, not when her situation was so much worse than his. That much seemed painfully obvious from the way she eased herself into the car as if gingerly avoiding the use of hurt muscles.

“So what’s Ephidel like?” Matthew asked. He didn't ask “what kind of man would do this to you,” but the two were close enough.

“He’s practically the leader of the Fang, what with Nergal so busy. I’m sure you already know.”

“Sure. He’s going to come crash in the rec room or bump shoulders with nobodies like me. I wouldn’t’ve asked if I’d met him,” he laughed.

“Fair enough.”

She hesitated as Matthew pulled out of the lot.

“…I don’t want to face repercussions for speaking my mind.”

“Hey, you don't need to worry about me. What do you say?” he said. Hers was an odd statement, but, thinking of how Ursula talked of Sonia's distrust of Legault, he didn't begrudge her it.

“Honor among thieves, right?” Leila said with a close-lipped smile that brought a mischievous glint to her eyes.

He couldn’t help but grin back.

“You got it.”

Leila assessed him for a moment, her face unreadable. She seemed to find something about him satisfactory, since she spoke:

“Sir Ephidel is…eerie. He’s charming enough, but there’s just something unsettling about him, something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. He’s serious and devoid of any passion, the sort of man that would kill someone just as calmly as he would…”

She trailed off. When Matthew looked over, her face was pale, and she bit her bottom lip.

“Leila?”

“As calmly as he would take his morning tea.”

“That wasn’t what you were going to say.”

“If you know what I was going to say, then there’s no use repeating it,” she said coolly. Leila didn't have any real bite to her words, though, and he let it drop.

“All right, then. Are you feeling any better?” he asked rather than pursuing the matter. He was curious about their enigmatic boss, but there was no point pestering Leila for more information, not when she faintly trembled.

Matthew stopped at an intersection on the border of Thria, glancing over at her.

“No,” she murmured.

Matthew hadn’t truly needed the answer; he could see the marks on her skin, an ugly red bite splashed along her slender neck and raw scratches peeked out of the collar of her jacket. A dark bruise colored her wrist purple-black.

“He's got nerve, I'll say. He had no right to do that.”

“Of course he did. I’m just his whore, after all,” she said bitterly. Leila looked away from him as if she suddenly found the Bernese streets too interesting to ignore.

“You’re a Fang member. You shouldn't be treated like this,” he growled. “It looks like he took a belt to you.”

“Yet no one else tries to stop him.”

“That's not right...That's not how we work.”

“Then do something about it,” Leila said, eyes like a hawk's.

Matthew looked away.

“I'll talk to Hurricane when I see him. He'll put a stop to it,” he said. It felt like a cop-out, passing the buck to someone else, but Leila smiled.

“Thank you.”

“So, what business do you have with Angel of Death?” Matthew asked.

“Pardon?”

“You’re in the car. Do you have business with Angel of Death, or am I just that damn irresistible?”

He expected her to roll her eyes, and in that, he wasn't wrong. He didn’t expect her to grin ear to ear, however.

“If you want to believe that, go ahead. It’ll hurt when you fall from the dream world you’re stuck in, but who am I to shatter your hopes?”

The way she smiled without showing her teeth accentuated her beauty mark, robbing him of his ability to retort. With her delicate features and a smile like that, Matthew could see full well why Ephidel had wanted her. His face flushed at the thought, and he hastily looked back at the road.

Leila laughed lightly.

“No comeback?”

“Nothing great, I'm afraid. It doesn’t change the question—any reason you agreed to come?”

“Any reason you asked?”

He shrugged.

“The other guys didn't pay any attention to you, and, well, that's not really fair. Just doing my part to maintain our little brotherhood,” Matthew answered.

“I was bored, is all. I’m not supposed to leave Black Fang territory, and there isn’t much to do without other people around,” she said.

“What? Who told you that?”

“Sir Ephidel.”

“This isn’t right. We’ve never done something like that….If White Wolf knew, he’d tear Ephidel’s throat out,” Matthew said.

She patted him on the shoulder.

“Thank you for trying to cheer me up. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re too nice to have ended up in a gang.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment? I’m pretty good at what I do,” he said.

“Which is?”

Matthew flashed her his best grin.

“Tell me, would this happen to be your moneybag? Or, well, I would say that if I were some telly star or something. Even I'm not so good that I can pick your pocket while I’m driving.”

“I’d love to demonstrate my skills, but you wouldn’t much like that,” she replied.

“Yeah?”

He thought of a dozen cheeky comments about her current work that would make her blush to her roots. But even though she would eat her words about his comeback skills, a moment’s smugness wouldn’t make up for earning her spite.

“I was something of an alley-basher. A cut above a mugger, but below a hitman,” she explained. Thinking of the tense stance she'd taken on the firing range and how warily she watched others, he could believe it. Leila didn't quite have the prizefighter's strength of Linus or Uhai, but her thin frame held a good bit of muscle, her shoulders bulkier than someone like Ursula's.

“Really? With your marksmanship, it’s a surprise you didn’t go into murder.”

“…Like I said, my father taught me. He wouldn’t have liked his daughter to kill for pay.”

“My parents don't care either way,” he said. “Cabbie, thief, assassin…It’s work. ‘Course, try telling that to Guy and he just launches into a tirade, but…”

“Who’s Guy?”

Matthew cursed under his breath. He didn't need to mention that he lived with a private eye, for then came the inevitable onslaught of questions, the accusations, the animosity. As Legault said, not many Fang were understanding when it came to detectives. He didn't know if Leila would bash his head in for that sort of thing or not, but he'd rather not find out.

“My flatmate. He’s not important.”

“He’s not in the Black Fang, I gather?” she pressed.

“Strictly speaking, no. Actually, in any manner of speaking, no. He and I went to school together. I’d rather he not get involved in all of this.”

“How can you be proud of what you do if you can’t tell your best mate?”

“When did I say—”

“Do you deny it?” she asked, stare intense enough to melt steel.

“Well, no. If you must know, he’d tear me limb from limb. He’s a detective, see, and—y’know what? It isn’t really your business,” Matthew said.

“A detective? And you're actually living with him?” Leila asked, surprised.

“Well, the city’s not exactly safe for either of us. We're not too strong, so...The Fang would gut him in a second and the police would throw my arse in jail.”

She nodded in understanding and obligingly dropped the topic. As the moldering old buildings of Bern swallowed the Lycian ones, she started again:

“…My parents kicked me out of the house when I turned eighteen and a day. That’s how I ended up out here. I had nowhere to go. I bounced from one mate's flat to another's until there was nothing but sleeping on the streets and praying I lived to wake up.”

He gripped the steering wheel tightly, nails digging into the padding.

“I'm sorry,” he said in a small voice. Familial loyalties usually stayed strong, even with the city twitching like a dying spider. All things given, it explained her painful thinness and the wary way she watched him. “I thought you said you weren’t going to pour your life story out to a stranger.”

“Do you still feel like we’re strangers?”

Matthew thought for a second how easily she'd talked to him. He'd only known her a day or two, but he felt like he knew her better than he did Raven, whom he'd chatted with for months.

“I met Guy years ago. He wasn’t from the best of households, so he’d always show up to lunch in these tattered, too-large clothes, and sit by himself, without a bite to eat. He was bullied pretty badly for it, too, and for being Sacaen in the middle of an Ostian school. I still don’t know what made me do it, but I shared my food with him, and, well, he hasn’t left since. I was a thief even then, you know, a petty shoplifter of sorts, and I guess he was always a bit of an honorable justice monger, too,” he said, smiling wistfully at the memory.

“He fought with everyone, of course. Picture this skinny little Sacaen kid getting his teeth knocked out by some huge rugby player, then getting right back up, fists swinging. He needed me to look out for him back then. Hell, he needs me to look out for him now. He’d turn up penniless and with his throat slit in some back alleyway…You get the idea. Still, he’s been the only one fool enough to stick by me, so I owe it to him not to let the Fang bite him in two. So there. A secret for a secret.”

She looked at him, large eyes fixed with aquiline intensity, and he smiled back. The two held eye contact for a second too long before both broke off, embarrassment coloring their cheeks.

“I won’t tell,” she said, a promise, another secret between them.

“Not like I would, either!”

“…The light’s green, you know,” Leila said with the barest hint of a laugh touching her words like the wingbeats of a moth.

He slammed his foot on the pedal, snapping his mind back to the road. That’d teach him to dwell on idle words. His distractedness could’ve turned his cab into a piece of scrap metal with two broken corpses inside. That wouldn’t do him or Leila or Legault any good. With the most important job of his life to worry about. He simply didn't have the time to linger over a sentiment shared with Ephidel’s whore. Matthew felt a stab of guilt for thinking of her as such. Leila had already made it abundantly clear that she had no desire to stay in her current situation.

Her smile melted off her face. Immediately, she was the guarded, gunslinging alleybasher once more, the moment’s amiability locked within the fortress of street-savvy caution. They drove in silence until they reached an abandoned old inn with a white paw-print painted on one window. They both stepped out, looking around warily.

The street was all but deserted, as if trapped in the memory of better times and unwilling to permit those that did not fit that vision. The echoing call of a crow bounced from building to building, the sound cutting like a dull knife through flesh. Leila’s hand rested on her gun; Matthew held his knife openly. The two unconsciously moved closer together, eyes darting uneasily.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” she asked.

“…Moderately,” he replied. He could all too easily imagine cutthroats and thugs in the shadows. Those, he felt confident that they could take. They both wore dog tags with the Black Fang's symbols around their necks, announcing their allegiances. It would be foolish of any other gangster to mess with them. Then again, people in Bern were desperate and savage, and a military man with a grudge could knock them both flat in an instant.

“Afraid?”

“You wish,” he said with more bravado than he felt. “C’mon. Let’s go meet this Angel of Death.”

She accepted the invitation without complaint, trailing behind him as he pushed open the door.

Matthew found himself faced with a girl who barely reached his chin, armed with a submachine gun that could easily splatter him across the wall. In a second, Leila shoved him to the side, dashing forward without explanation. He slammed into the doorframe as Leila knocked the weapon out of the girl’s hand and had her twisted into a choke hold in a second. Matthew's mouth hung open; he had never imagined that Leila had that kind of skill. Far from feeling safer, it made his pulse quicken and his hand tighten on his knife's handle.

“Lemme go!” the girl yelped, wriggling ineffectually. “Matthew!”

“Cripes, Leila, let off!” he said, rubbing at his bruised shoulder.

She stepped back, face flushed and gun in hand. The girl scowled at her and picked herself off the ground.

“Who’s she?” the girl asked, breath coming in quick gasps. She looked at Leila as if she were a wild animal.

“…A new Fang member,” he said, not willing to go into the intricacies. “Damn, Nino, I’m sorry she jumped you. Leila’s sorry, too, isn’t she?”

“Of course. I’m sorry; I thought perhaps the safe house had been seized and that Matthew and I were in trouble,” she said, holstering her weapon. “Nino, was it? I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

Her tone took on an odd, soft note, and she offered a sympathetic smile. Nino grinned, showing a set of crooked teeth.

“I’m all right. My brothers would be really impressed with her!”

“I'm sure they'd be impressed with you, too, guarding this place,” Matthew replied.

He ruffled her hair. Nino preened with pride.

“Thanks, Uncle Matthew! It's been too long since you've visited me!”

“Sorry, but I’m afraid we’re here on business. Hurricane sent us, you know. We’ve got to see the Angel of Death.”

“Jaffar’s not supposed to be exerting himself. I’ve been trying hard enough to keep him from bleeding everywhere!” Nino said.

“Please? Hurricane’s really counting on me, you know.”

“It’s important? …I guess I could ask Jaffar if he wants to. Though you yell at Uncle Legault for me if you see him! You two wait here,” she said, dashing off with the heavy gun held in one hand.

“Matthew, what gambit are you pulling?” Leila demanded.

“What?”

“You tell Blue Crow that Hurricane ordered you to see some policewoman, and now you’re claiming that he also asked you to see Angel of Death. What’s really going on?”

“Relax. I’m telling the truth. Hurricane’s got me doing important work, and I really _do_ have to see all of these people. You think I like dashing all over town on a snipe hunt?” he responded.

Before she could answer, Nino popped back up, sans the weapon.

“He says it’s okay. I’d keep it pretty quick, though. He’s got to get his rest if he wants to get better.”

“Thanks,” Matthew automatically replied. He slowly scaled the stairs, turned the doorknob, and braced himself.

Jaffar’s eyes bored into his from the moment he opened the door. They looked like points of a constellation, far-off and alien, watching him from under lowered brows. The man had a strong predator’s jaw, intended to tear the throat from a struggling victim, and his unruly hair was the color of the blood that stained the bandages tied across his bare chest. He didn’t speak a word as the three filed into the room. It made the hair on the back of Matthew’s neck stand on end, and he anxiously looked at his feet, the far wall, anything but those fierce eyes.

“How are you doing, Jaffar?” Nino asked, moving to change his bandages before he even replied. “Here, don’t move. You’re still hurt.”

“Thank you,” he said, voice low.

Leila and Matthew traded incredulous glances. Jaffar let Nino baby him without a word, complying with her every order. His expression didn't soften one iota, but it still took Matthew by surprise.

“I’m here to ask some questions,” he started, stepping forward.

Jaffar didn’t reply, didn’t gesture at all to acknowledge that he understood.

“It’s about when you were shot. Could you tell me what exactly happened?” he tried again.

“His injuries?” Nino asked. “Uh...He was shot twice. One bullet pierced a lung, and the other’s through his leg, here...”

“Do you still have the bullets, or did the police get them?” Leila cut in.

Matthew stared, eyebrows rising to his hairline. It was a good question, but not one he’d thought to ask. His opinion of her rose a notch.

Nino looked over to Jaffar.

“One,” he said with the quiet of a hunting cat padding on silent paws.

Nino finished unwinding the soiled bandages, setting them aside. She began to carefully wash the bloody mess on his chest with a gentleness that made Matthew wonder if she even knew who she dealt with. The rumors surrounding Jaffar were only outdone by the reality. He could walk through a consul’s house in the middle of the day, kill him at his dinner table, and make it out to tell of it. He could pick off a policeman from three hundred yards with a handgun. He was an acrobat, a dancer, his movements graceful and lethal, a pair of curve-bladed combat knives flickering like steel lightning in his hands. He was a master of trick shots, striking mid-jump, agile enough to scale a sheer wall…and yet Nino talked kindly to him and tenderly traced the stark scars that crisscrossed his dark skin.

“Here,” she said, dabbing rubbing alcohol onto a cotton swab. “Sorry if this hurts.”

Jaffar didn’t flinch as she cleaned the bullet hole.

“We’ve got one of ‘em. Jaffar was barely breathing and he didn’t know what happened, and it was just lying there, so I took it,” Nino said. “Was that wrong? I wasn’t really thinking.”

“You were with him?”

“Well, sorta. I was supposed to run an errand for Mother, but I found him there…I didn’t see anything, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Can we see the bullet?” Leila asked.

“In a sec,” Nino said, moving on to the bandage on his leg. It felt surreal, the safe house bathed in light from the dusty window. Time seemed to freeze as a proud whore, a determined thief, a young girl, and wounded assassin prepared to parlay.

“I was in Badon,” Jaffar began. “Three officers demanded my arrest. I shot one between the eyes, and the other two…”

He paused to catch his breath, one hand held to his side.

“…the other two split up. The younger stayed…in front of me, but the other…behind…”

His breathing grew labored, and he stopped, a dry, wracking cough shaking him. Pain flickered across his usually expressionless face.

“You’re going to hurt yourself!” Nino cried, hurriedly checking on the seal holding his chest tube in place. “I found him like this, collapsed on the streets. He was bleeding everywhere, couldn’t speak more than a whisper…I, uh, hotwired a car, like Uncle Legault showed me how to, and tried to find Aunt Ursula or someone. I didn’t want to move him because he really wasn’t doing well, but I had to…Kenneth eventually helped me. He did the procedure on the table downstairs and left me here to take care of him.”

She turned back to the Jaffar, resting a hand on his tattooed shoulder.

“He shouldn’t still be bleeding if he was hurt three days ago,” Leila commented.

Nino nodded.

“He tried to get up and accidentally tore out the stitches earlier. There you go, Jaffar! Do you need anything? Water? Aspirin?”

He mutely shook his head, settling back onto the narrow cot. Nino stayed at his side a moment longer, brushing a strand of red hair out of his eyes and adjusting the bandages again. She slowly got up, motioning for the other two to follow, and headed down the stairs.

“Nino, that’s the _Angel of Death._ Are you out of your mind?” Matthew hissed.

“No. You guys are all wrong about him. He isn’t just a killer. He’s nice to me. Kenneth said we should’ve just let him die, but Jaffar didn’t do anything to deserve that.”

“He’s a murderer,” Leila said, tone like a splinter of ice.

“Leila?” Matthew asked.

“I think that’s enough to warrant death.”

“We’re the Black Fang! We’re the good guys!” Nino piped up.

Leila’s mouth tightened at the corners, but she didn’t say anything more. Matthew watched her with confusion, wondering uneasily if her irritation had something to do with her insistence that she had no other choice but to join the Fang. She would have had to bang up or injure victims in her earlier career, after all, so she didn't live a blameless life herself. He thought of the discomfort in his chest at the sight of Jaffar, the fear that gripped him, and wondered if she might not be right to want him dead. Matthew shook the idea out of his head. If she didn't like one nightmarish hitman, that was her prerogative.

“Here’s the bullet,” Nino said, pulling a crumpled metal slug out of her pocket. The impact had squashed the front end to next to nothing, but the back end had stayed moderately intact.

Leila took it out of her hand, examining it quickly before handing it to Matthew.

“No policeman fired this,” she declared.

“What do you mean?”

“Caliber. The bullet's small, smaller than my 9mm. I don’t think the police use anything like that.”

Matthew turned it over in his hand, looking closely at it. Leila was right—unless Harken broke the procedures that Guy had been bound to, he hadn't fired the bullet that brought down Jaffar.

“Hey, do you mind if I keep this?” he asked.

“Are you going to find out who hurt Jaffar? Oh! You two are like detectives!” Nino said.

“Yeah, the Fang’s own personal snoops and information gatherers. We're specialists in acquisitions of all kinds,” he replied with a grin.

Leila smiled, the mirror to his.

“If you don’t have anything else for us, though, we’d best be going. It’s nearly dinnertime. Make sure you and Tall, Dark, and Creepy get a bite to eat, okay?” he said.

“Yeah, of course! It was nice seeing you, Uncle Matthew!”

With a merry wave and another smile, Matthew walked out of the building, that bullet sitting heavily in his pocket. Leila followed at his heels.

“Where do you want me to drop you off?” he asked as he tugged open the door to his cab.

She hesitated.

“…The Black Fang boarding house. Sir Ephidel will want me.”

“He’s going to hurt you again, isn’t he?” Matthew asked, anger roughening his voice.

“I’m tough. Don’t worry about me.”

_Like hell I won’t,_ he thought, grinding his teeth. She couldn’t walk without wincing in pain, for all the bravado she’d presented for Nino. Besides, even if Ephidel didn't hurt her, he didn't have the right to strong-arm her into sex to begin with. Leila wasn't anyone's property.

“You should at least get those cuts disinfected,” he said instead of voicing his discomfort.

She looked forlornly at the raw scratches across her shoulder.

“I’m not so foolish that I didn’t already do so.”

“I’m just watching out for our new Fang member. No need to get angry,” Matthew said lightly.

“I’m not angry at you. Don’t worry,” she assured. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“No. I didn’t really think Harken had shot him anyway, and I can’t exactly whip out some cop tech on this and figure out who it belongs to.”

“Could Guy help?”

“Him? No way. He didn’t ever get into forensics stuff. He was pretty much a stakeout sort of bloke. Not good with his words or bookwork.”

“Then what do you expect to do?”

“I dunno. See this Isadora character first, check for more leads…Truth be told, I don’t really know what I’m doing. I’m no detective,” he muttered.

“You seem to be doing all right from where I’m standing,” Leila replied.

“…Thanks. I mean, my whole future is riding on all this. If I figure out who shot Jaffar, I’ll actually get fully initiated. I’d get a nickname.”

“What would you pick?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words didn’t come. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea in the slightest. Getting his nickname had always been a far-off idea, to the point that he hadn’t even thought of it. Matthew chewed on his lip, mind racing.

“I don't know, but I’d get my tattoo between the shoulderblades. Nice and neat.”

“And easy to hide,” Leila added thoughtfully.

“Well, yeah. That, too. What do you expect? I’m going to wear one open, for every thug with a grudge to come take a swing at me? I’m not exactly a strong fellow. I run into some Taliver flunky, and it’s curtains for me,” he said, shrugging.

“Did no one ever teach you to defend yourself?”

“Not really. Don’t get me wrong, I can come out pretty fine if the other guy’s about my size. I know schoolyard fights. But when somebody’s twice my weight and packing? I’m out of there. Nothing’s going to make me put my neck on the line like that.”

“Probably a good attitude in this day and age,” she conceded. “Yet you keep poking your nose into my…current mess.”

“I didn’t say I don’t get involved in things. I just don't put myself in danger. Why bother sweating and fighting when you can work in the background?”

“And messing with Ephidel isn’t dangerous?”

“Would you rather I stop the car and let you walk the rest of the way?” he snapped. She had a point, though—including an ostracized initiate in a game of cards wasn’t the same as raging over Ephidel’s actions, and the consequences could be dire, to say the least.

Leila didn’t say anything, regarding him coolly.

“What'll you do if I just drop you off and leave? Find someone else? If you don't want me talking with you, be done with it,” he said.

She grit her teeth, a look of frustration flickering across her features.

“I didn’t mean it like that. You and Nino are the first people I’ve really talked to in days,” Leila said, a hint of desperation in her voice that didn’t match her flash of anger.

“So, if I ask about your injuries, I’m nosy, but if I don’t, you’re alone? You’ve got to give me some leeway here.”

“I'm sorry, but my business is my own,” she said simply.

“Is this the same business that made you freak out over Angel of Death?” he asked.

“ _Matthew_.”

“What?”

She held his gaze for a moment longer before looking to the side. Matthew was startled to see that she actually trembled.

“I don’t like that man,” she said, letting her hair fall in her face. “I look into his eyes and see nothing. No pity, no remorse, just…just the cold ability to kill.”

She cradled her gun in both hands, staring down at it.

“This is the great equalizer. It compensates for my size, my strength, anything but the ability to point and pull the trigger. Yet that man…that Angel of Death…Matthew, he could put a bullet through me before I could move, and that terrifies me. I can't shake the feeling that something horrible is going to happen if he's still alive.”

Leila's voice shook like a dog’s tail, and she made no move to holster the weapon.

“He won’t hurt us. He’s on our side,” Matthew weakly said, but he remembered the fear that lanced through him when he met those fierce eyes. Jaffar seemed like a specter lifted from myth and nightmare, preying on some primal terror, the same fear of death that made Leila shiver.

“…I don’t trust him. Nino could get hurt,” she said.

“Nino’s Black Fang like the rest of us. She can take care of herself.”

“Not against him.”

He privately agreed with her. If Leila had knocked aside Nino so easily, Jaffar could slaughter her in a second. He outweighed her by a good eighty pounds, and even bloodied up and with a chest tube keeping his lungs from collapsing, Jaffar could still likely kill the lot of them.

“You saw him, plain as I did. He’s not going to hurt her,” Matthew assured. “Besides, he answers directly to Nergal. He has no will of his own. He won't do anything unless it’s ordered.”

She nodded slowly.

“I know…but all the same, I would rather face Sir Ephidel a thousand times over than him...Pay me no heed. It’s irrational, as you said,” she muttered.

The cabbie felt tempted to put his arm around her narrow shoulders and tell her not to worry. His face reddened at the thought, though, and he settled for clapping her on the shoulder. She flinched away, hunching closer to the door.

“We’re here,” he said after a minute, noticing that she didn’t even bother to look up. Her muscles were tense under his hand, and her grip on the gun had shifted to one where she could actually shoot. He took the hint and let go, knowing that the weapon could be pointed at him in an instant if he worried her. It irritated him that she could touch him without warning, but that he couldn't do the same. Then again, he didn't know her life. Many of the Fang were equally jumpy.

“Bye,” she replied, before easing herself out of the cab. Matthew watched her as she walked towards the boarding house, her gait swift and masculine. She had the legs of a runner, which made her thigh-high stockings and high-heeled leather boots all the more glaring in contrast. Despite his mind’s feeble protest, his eyes remained glued to the hem of her skirt, which would have been obscene on a woman six inches shorter than her. His foot remained frozen over the gas pedal.

He cursed under his breath, violently slamming his foot down and speeding off with a screech of tires. Had he gone back to high school, getting turned on every time some tramp with a plunging neckline looked his way?

“Don’t think about it,” Matthew muttered.

By the time he pulled up outside the flat, he had pushed aside his irritation. Matthew trudged up the stairs, the day’s heat radiating upwards through the soles of his shoes. He pushed open the door, dropped his hat on the counter, and moved to flop down on the couch. Guy had apparently had the same idea; he lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, his hair out of its usual braid. It poured down his shoulders and over his chest, nearly reaching his belt. Guy was more vain of that hair than a dragon of its hoard.

Guy cracked open one eye, his young face splitting in a jaw-popping yawn.

“’Ey, Matthew,” he said, pulling himself into a sitting position.

“Did I wake you up?” he asked, taking the seat beside Guy.

“Nah, I was just resting,” he assured. “Long day, huh?”

“Tell me about it. I had the worst passenger. Moodier than even Raven!”

“What kind of awful?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. It was an innocent question, but it still made Matthew pause.

“Pretty snappy, but quite the looker.”

Guy grinned mischievously.

“Lemme guess—quiet, Ilian, and hanging off of every word you said?”

“More like your type, I think. Natural redhead, a little too pale, skinny as a racetrack dog. Still pretty cute, I thought,” he said.

“Could it…Was it P-Priscilla?” he asked, tripping over her name. Even years out of school, he still flushed pink whenever his school crush came up. The lengths he had gone to catch her eye had been nothing short of impressive, but she never thought of Guy the same way. No, she'd always hung around Erk, talking about books and science with him. It drove Guy up the wall, but they'd somehow become friends anyway. Matthew still felt some pity for him, but he'd been moping far too long.

“No, it wasn’t Priscilla. Cripes, just get over it, already!”

“I _have_ gotten over it. I was just curious. You’re the one who brought it up,” he said.

“Really, now. Are you going to take up music again?”

Guy’s flush deepened and a scowl touched his face. He had some small skill with the guitar and a good voice, which had led to him doing paid stints at clubs sometimes. All of his heartfelt covers of Sacaen songs had been intended to catch Priscilla’s eye, though, and after being soundly rejected, he’d lost all heart for it.

“Shut up! If you’re just gonna keep teasing me, I’ll fight you myself!” he yelled, jumping to his feet. The Sacaen always stood on the balls of his feet, knees slightly bent, permanently ready for a fight.

Matthew’s eyes flickered to Guy’s crooked nose, broken thrice over in old brawls.

“Guy, don’t be stupid. You can’t just come at me, fists swinging. You smashed our radio last time.”

“Aha! You’re just scared I’ll win!”

“We’re not six anymore, Guy. That’s not going to work,” Matthew said. “I’m sorry, okay? I wasn’t teasing you.”

The other man slowly sat back down, his slanted eyes unwavering from Matthew’s.

“Oh, bugger it all! Why’re you so touchy today?”

Guy muttered something incomprehensible.

“Pardon?”

“Hate this job. This stupid s-security thing,” he stammered, hands ineffectually clenched into fists.

Matthew swallowed, and let his barbed retorts die in his throat.

“Hey, man. What’s the matter?”

“…Got told that some ‘slant-eyed horse-fucker’ like me shouldn’t be takin’ jobs from honest Lycians. I took a swing at the bastard and nearly got canned for it. Lucky Sealen was there…”

“Tuscana’s only a step away from Araphen, and you know the people there are awful. Don’t let ‘em get to you,” Matthew said, slapping him on the back.

Guy slumped back against the couch with a sigh.

“Tell you what. I’ll go find the fireman and give him the names of those guys,” Matthew said.

“C’mon, I’m not six. Why’d you say that?”

“No one messes with my family without messing with me,” he replied, offering Guy a reassuring grin.

Guy slowly matched his smile.

“Thanks,” he said, lightly punching him on the shoulder. “Don’t need you to protect me, but…The sentiment’s nice, I guess. If you care about that sort of thing.”

Matthew hit him back with a laugh.

“Who was it that always had his face ground into the concrete ‘til I stepped in?”

“Hitting some dope when his back’s turned doesn’t count!”

“And who still wins our little fights?”

Guy launched himself at Matthew, slamming hard into his chest. Matthew found himself flat on his back in a second, but it was a simple matter to roll and shove Guy off the couch. He hit the floor with a low “Oof!,” the wind knocked out of him.

Matthew looked over to make sure he hadn’t hit his head, only to see Guy grinning like an idiot.

“That didn’t count!” he said with mock anger, laughing despite himself.

“It did so. You’ll never stop evildoers if you can’t even best me!”

“Can so! I've got some great detective work done already! See, I already know that the Angel of Death didn’t kidnap Harken!”

Matthew stopped, arching an eyebrow.

“Yeah?”

“I heard Angel of Death got shot through the chest, and then he got Lowen’s dad, and, well, basically he was hurt way too badly to kidnap anyway. So there. How’s that for detective work?”

“Sounds good. Have you learned anything else?

“Huh? Well, no, not exactly…But it's still pretty good, right? I'm doing better'n you thought I would.”

“You're a real marvel, Guy,” he said, watching his flatmate meander over to the ice box.

“You want something, or did you already eat?”

“I’m starving,” Matthew replied as Guy got himself a beer. He tossed one to Matthew and popped the top off of his own.

“Looks like we have sausages.”

Matthew waved him on, using the bottle opener on his keys to snap off the top. He drank appreciatively. The liquor jogged his memory, reminding him to stop by The Full Moon to see if Legault had come back. He needed to see if Legault’s extensive weapons knowledge could identify the bullet he and Leila had picked up. It could wait until after dinner, of course, but he needed to go.

“So, this Raven guy. How's he better than a cute passenger?” Guy asked.

“I pick him up a few days a week. He's a bit odd, but he gives me football advice, and he's reliable business,” Matthew said, taking a bite of sausage and toast.

“Good for you, then! If he's got some good football tips, though, I'd love to hear 'em. The office sometimes has bets placed, and if I could turn some coin, that'd be good.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. I might just take him up on it someday,” Matthew said. “'Course, that's getting perilously close to palling around with him, and I'd rather avoid that.”

“Not very good company, eh?”

“Not my idea of a new best mate, no. Anyway, I’m going out,” he announced, tossing his dish in the sink and grabbing his hat off the counter. “See you later, if you’re still up.”

“I’ll be writing up some case info, so maybe,” Guy said, shrugging. “Where’re you out to in such a hurry?”

“I'm heading down to the pub for a bit,” Matthew said.

“Oh, okay. Have fun with your mates.”

“Thanks. We'll try not to get into too much trouble,” he said with a laugh. Matthew crammed his hat over his messy hair, lifted one hand in a wave, and walked out.

His footfalls rang out against the rickety metal stairs as he hurried down them, arms raised slightly for balance. The cabbie hit the ground at a jog, crossed the pool of light cast by the dusty streetlamp, and reached the familiar bulk of his car. It felt like his apartment had a revolving door in recent days; he couldn’t spend more than a few minutes relaxing without some new idea prompting him out the door.

The drive from Ostia to Laus was a short one even in the day; at night, with hardly any reputable folk about, he slipped through the streets as easily as rainwater. The Full Moon was just beginning to kick into gear when he walked through the doors; Linus threw back a pint with his levelheaded second-in-command, Igor. The usually aloof marksman, Denning, sat serenely in the corner, a rifle strapped across his back and a blank look on his face. Rumor had it Nergal had hit him with his car when Denning was younger, and he'd sustained permanent brain damage. No one could ask him, though, as Denning could only manage a vacant expression and a nonsensical reply. Only his sister, Limstella, could coax any sort of dialogue from him, and so most ignored the man entirely.

Matthew waved politely at him, unable to be cruel to the handicapped. Predictably, he received no reply, and so he moved to sit at the counter.

“I'll take a Flux on draft, thanks,” he began.

As Jan fetched his order, Matthew asked, “Has Hurricane been in?”

“I’m afraid not. He’s got work with the Ilian drug trade, or so I’ve been told,” the bartender apologetically said. He set the drink before him, adding, “Two zinc.”

Matthew counted out the coins and set them on the counter.

“Hey, kid!” Linus boomed, clapping him violently on the back. Matthew nearly fell off the bar stool.

“Blimey, way to almost kill a guy!” he exclaimed.

Linus patronizingly ruffled his hair.

“What’re you doing out here?”

“Trying to find what hole Hurricane is hiding in this time,” Matthew said, slugging Linus in the arm. The Mad Dog took it as an invitation to hit him hard enough that Matthew _did_ fall off his seat. He sullenly rubbed at his shoulder, scowling something fierce.

“He's off following orders from the top, I'd wager. He'll show up eventually. Legault's gone for weeks at a time.”

Matthew privately thought that these circumstances were a bit different—the case couldn’t well get solved if Legault wasn’t around to hear what he’d discovered. He could take some small comfort in the fact that Legault would have to show up by the end of the week, like he’d promised, even if that didn't help much in the moment.

“Yeah, I was just hoping I’d get in touch with him. No problem.”

“I’ll tell him you’re looking for him if he shows up,” Linus said, tossing his massive shoulders in a shrug. “Are you going to stick around?”

“If you’re buying,” he replied with a grin.

Apparently fed up with waiting for Linus to return, Igor headed over. He walked with a profound limp, as always; someone had hamstrung him years ago and he’d never fully recovered. Even so, he made an ace getaway driver, albeit a bit of an oddball, even by Fang standards. He kept his hair gelled up in spikes, and he had one ear pierced a half dozen times, like no respectable bloke.

“What’s this about him buying a round?” Igor asked.

Linus grumbled under his breath and fished out his coinpurse.

“Thanks, kid,” he muttered, smacking Matthew on the back again. He prudently chose to move his seat, sticking Igor between them. Getting hit by a lorry had a comparable feel to one of Linus’s heavyhanded slaps.

“So, how’d the meeting with the military bloke go?”

“Lloyd’s furious,” Linus said, toying with the clunky dog collar around his neck. “He’s an inch away from ripping out Ephidel’s throat.”

He cracked his knuckles ominously. Igor hissed at him to quiet down, nodding meaningfully at Denning. The man continued to stare blankly at the cup of water in front of him.

“He couldn’t tell him if he wanted to,” Linus scoffed, but he lowered his voice anyway. “I know Lloyd told Ursula that we don’t question our orders, but he doesn’t like this any more than I do. This isn't like one of my father's missions. We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“No shit,” Igor snorted. “You guys shouldn’t have to answer to those creepy Quinns.”

Matthew kept quiet as the two ranted, their volume climbing progressively higher as time went on and drinks disappeared. He had his own bone to pick with Ephidel, but he wasn’t stupid enough to say so in front of Denning. He finally made some excuse and slipped off.

It was no secret that the Reed brothers despised the changes made to their father’s organization, but to hear Linus yell it in front of a bar full of people made Matthew uneasy. He tried to remember if things had been like that in his first days in the Black Fang. Probably, if he was going to be realistic, but it didn’t feel like it. Back then, they’d felt like a family. Legault had patiently taught him the basics of good thievery, of gambling, drinking, fighting, and everything else that mattered in the job. His image still served as Matthew’s mark for differentiating common street thugs from class-act criminals: well-dressed, well-learned, suave, and careful. Matthew had been a scruffy kid not even out of secondary school, but the others had accepted him with open arms. He hadn’t doubted their righteousness or their unity.

No, things _were_ different. He thought of Leila, balled up miserably on the couch, ignored; Jaffar, struggling to draw breath, the others willing to let him die; even Denning, talked about like he wasn’t there.

Matthew shook his head. It didn’t matter. He didn’t care much more for Denning or Jaffar than the others did—hell, no one had cared for them from the start. He didn't need to get himself worked up for no reason. Matthew keyed the ignition and drove off, benching his concerns alongside all the others. The thought of Leila's mistreatment didn't disappear so easily, though. At that moment, she could very well be pinned under Ephidel, trying to force back tears, her pride just barely holding her together...Matthew's hands tightened on the steering wheel.

Guy had already fallen asleep when he got home. He was sprawled out on the couch, his back to Matthew, with those files of his scattered around him. Matthew picked up one of them, wondering if he could make use of any information. The words were written in Sacaen, causing him to sigh and set the paper back down. It wasn’t a huge surprise, given that Guy still asked for help with Etrurian sometimes, but it didn't do Matthew any good. He knew a little Sacaen, just bits and pieces that he'd picked up from Guy or Uhai, really, but not enough to make any sense of Guy's work.

The Sacaen shifted, mumbled something unintelligible, and settled back down, his shoulders hunched and arms tucked to his chest. He looked like a stray dog curled up to fight off the cold, his shirt hanging off of his too-thin form. Even as a full-grown man, Guy was still as scrawny as Leila, almost, half a head shorter than Matthew and skinny as spaghetti. Elibe did not look kindly upon the poor, and, like Matthew, Guy had most certainly grown up poor. Neither had really dug themselves out of that ditch.

That would change, Matthew thought to himself as he brushed his teeth and stripped to his boxers. Once he’d solved this mess for the Fang, he’d make enough to let them both live better than their current accommodations. With that singular goal in mind, he crawled into bed and flicked out the lights.


	5. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Call her not wicked; that word's touch_  
>  _Consumes her like a curse;_  
>  _But love her not too much, too much,_  
>  _For that is even worse._  
>  \-- _Beauty_ , Elinor Wylie

As he’d taken to doing, Matthew inhaled breakfast and ran out the door before his flatmate even woke. He worked his usual morning run, doing his best to keep things somewhat normal while trying to sort out the Harken case. Passengers were scarce in the early hours, but there were plenty of careless pigeons to rob, either hungover or too sleepy to pay attention. Matthew's preferred technique involved bumping into them and slipping a hand into their pockets as he apologized. It wasn't as lucrative as it had been when he was in school and the economy had been a smidgeon better, but it still paid.

All too soon, though, the sun crested the skyline, shining weakly through a heavy veil of gray storm clouds. The raindrops drummed on his car with a sound like gravel tumbling down a sewer grate, a thin mist ghosting over the city. His windscreen wipers whipped back and forth furiously.

Muttering disparaging remarks about the city, he headed to the rec room in hopes of good news from Ursula. The jog from the car to the door was enough to soak his favorite newsboy cap and make his jacket cling uncomfortably to his shoulders. He threw the hat down on a table by the door and shook out his hair.

“Some weather we’re having,” he cheerily remarked to the occupants of the room. Only Aion, a book in hand, and everpresent Leila had bothered to show up. He inwardly cursed Ursula’s schedule—he’d had his hopes set on meeting Isadora.

Aion gestured vaguely at the card table.

“There’s a note for you,” he said.

Matthew—

Meet Isadora at 4:00 sharp. Dress nicely and mind your tongue.

–Ursula

He perked up, cramming the note in his pocket.

“Ah, a stroke of good fortune!” he exclaimed, a grin spreading across his face. “The storm may rage unabated, but Lady Luck smiles on me!”

“That’s nice, but could you keep it down?” Aion muttered. “I know uneducated rubes like you cannot appreciate literature, but I’m attempting to read.”

Matthew made a face at Aion when he looked back to his book. Rather than squabbling with him, though, Matthew padded over to the couch.

Leila looked up at him, dark smudges under her eyes, and moved to sit up. He sat next to her, looking over her disheveled hair and wan face.

“You look like death warmed over,” he said.

“I can't say I slept well,” Leila replied. “I thought I might nap here.”

“Why not stay over at the boarding house?”

“I either accept Ephidel’s ride over here, or I’m stuck there all day. I can’t well walk.”

He nodded in understanding. Whether she meant the distance or her current condition, it didn't matter. Bern's streets were too dangerous for anyone shy of Jaffar to walk alone anyway. He wanted to tell her that she could just call him, but he found himself out of the flat so often that she'd never get a hold of him anyway.

“Hey, someone else could give you a lift, right?”

“You know how the boarding house is. Anyone that can’t afford to live elsewhere isn’t going to afford a car.”

“For the love of Elimine, can you two keep it down?” Aion demanded.

“Sorry!” Matthew called, muttering under his breath, “Prick.”

Leila snickered before catching herself.

“Isn’t he your superior?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

“Owl? Sure, but he’s still got a stick shoved so far up his arse you can see it when he goes to lecture at you,” he whispered back.

Aion was like Teodor's more obnoxious double, well-known for his arrogance and the off-handed way he talked to Uhai and the other Sacaens in the gang. He was a genius with electricity, though, capable of hotwiring a car with his eyes shut or cutting the lights in a building. He did all the repairs on the Fang houses' circuitry, so no one really spoke their minds to him. To Matthew's eye, though, he was just a racist bully with an overinflated sense of self-worth. He didn't say as much to Leila, but he also didn't do much to disguise his contempt.

“How has your investigation been going?” she asked.

“Same as you saw it before. Harken didn’t just show up on my doorstep with a gift basket and an apology.”

“Harken? I thought you were looking into the Angel of Death’s shooter.”

He grimaced.

“They’re pretty much the same thing,” he tried to explain.

“We determined yesterday that they weren’t, though,” Leila said, confusion overtaking her exhaustion. “Or is there just a very good reason why you never got into detective work?”

“No, I mean it’s the same case. I find the shooter, I find Harken, and vice versa.”

She thought for a moment.

“Have you considered seeing a munitions dealer? Maybe they could tell you what sort of bullet that was.”

“Hey, not a bad idea. Is there any reason you _didn’t_ go into detective work?”

She laughed, a good deal more amused than he.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Leila said. Matthew frowned for a second, wondering what she could have meant, before realizing that she knew about Guy; of course she'd think he liked detectives. He shrugged, about to chat more about his flatmate, before Aion rose to his feet, anger flashing on his face like lightning in the belly of clouds.

“I expected no less from a blue-collar dog like her, but I cannot believe you would be so inconsiderate, Matthew. Your mentor would not look favorably upon that.”

“Hurricane wouldn’t care,” he whispered to Leila, winking. “He’s even more chatty than I am.”

“That’s saying something,” she murmured back.

The two looked up at Aion’s livid face, and both simultaneously begin to laugh. The Owl scowled and walked off, muttering that he would skin them alive as soon as he came back.

“Was that wise?” she asked, still grinning.

“Who cares?” he replied. “Aion's all talk and no action, anyway.”

She rolled her eyes, ruffling his hair.

“You have no respect for the rules, do you?”

He froze at her touch, staring confusedly at her. Some of the older Fang liked to joke around with him, but it seemed entirely different coming from her. He remembered the way that she'd nearly splattered his brains across the windscreen just because he'd lain a hand on her shoulder.

“Matthew?”

“I—well, not really,” he said, trying to save face. She eyed him curiously.

“Is something the matter?”

“Nothing. Just a bit of an odd question,” he lied. “I suppose I follow rules when they’re good and sensible, and don’t any other time. But then, that’s the de facto for most of Elibe, you know?”

She looked at him with an expression that plainly said she didn’t believe him.

“How are you doing?” he asked, eager to change the subject.

She sighed.

“I’ve been graciously—” she spat the word as if it were a poisonous insect that had crawled into her food “—given the night off. With a bit of rest, I ought to be doing a bit better.”

He looked over the light bruises on her wrists, the half-healed scratches on her shoulder, the raw bite on her neck. Her plunging neckline framed blatant hickeys. At his stare, she pulled her jacket closer around her, looking away.

He put his hand on her shoulder, and she bristled just as badly as she had last time. He hurriedly dropped his hand.

“Looking for cheap thrills?” she asked, failing to sound as tough as she clearly intended.

“Do you think so little of me?” he asked.

She stayed silent for a moment longer before she slumped against him, resting her head on his shoulder. He stiffened.

“Leila?”

“Forgive me if this seems forward, but I’m so sore that even sitting up hurts,” she said.

He shifted, staring intently at the wall.

“I’m still a little wet, you know,” he said. It felt like a stupid thing to say—she obviously realized that he was wet, what with her slender body pressed up against him, her legs folded at her side and showing off an alarming amount of soft white skin, her short hair spilling over his shoulder in a fiery halo.

He tore his eyes from her, furiously banishing the thoughts from his mind.

A peal of thunder split the tense air. Matthew jumped, his shoulder knocking painfully into Leila’s jaw.

“Dammit! Sorry!” he shouted, while she spat a string of curses and rubbed her jaw.

“It's okay. I pity those stuck out in this, though.”

“Guy does some outdoor security stuff. He’s got to be drenched,” Matthew said.

“Has anyone here met him?” Leila asked, another thunderclap rumbling like an angry dragon.

“Only Hurricane, I’m afraid. I told you before—if people know my best mate’s a snoop, things won’t be so good for us.”

“Then why does Hurricane know?”

“Hm? He knows everything. A bloke can’t well keep secrets from Legault if he’s not willing to let ‘em, you know. That, and he’s kept me from getting my hide tanned a dozen times over. You can trust him with just about anything except dice, cards, and women,” he said with a laugh.

“An interesting character. Is there any reason I haven’t met him?”

Matthew shrugged helplessly.

“He’s busier than a short-order cook. I can’t even get a hold of him lately. What about your mates?”

“I haven’t seen most of them since secondary school. I think they’re doing fine enough,” Leila said, frowning. “I know quite a few tried to get governmental jobs, dangerous though it may be to say that here.”

“So did some of mine. My ex did clerical work for the chief consul’s brother. Comedy gold, huh? Black Fang and a government brat?”

“My ex is head detective at the police department,” she replied with a soft laugh.

“Bloody hell! I bet that was fun.”

“We were known as ‘the gingers,’ actually. You have no idea how much trouble this has been,” she muttered, picking up a clump of red hair.

“I think it’s beautiful.”

She stopped and stared.

“I mean, you know, red hair in general,” he mumbled. “Guy’s old crush was a redhead. He used to sing at clubs to try and impress her, and he was actually pretty good. Maybe you’d heard of him? He did covers of Xane “Doppelgangr” Chaney hits down at Geitz and Geese’s nightclub?”

He knew he was rambling, but it provided the only defense he could put up to ward off her accusing stare.

“He’d sometimes get her to duet ‘A Thief Walked Away with My Heart’ with him. It was a godawful song even when it was written, but it was still pretty funny to hear him…”

His forced smile slipped and he looked away.

“You know, I actually…need to get going. I’ve got an appointment to make.”

“I see,” Leila said simply, but she didn’t protest. He hurried out the door and into the pounding rain without another look back.

“Haha, well, that's that! See you.”

“You’re an idiot, Matthew,” he muttered as he walked to his car. Lightning flashed along the building-rent skyline in sporadic bursts, thunder rumbling like a lion’s roar. Sleet laced the rain like shotgun pellets, stinging his skin. He pulled his coat closer around him, wrenching open the broken door and tumbling into his smoky-smelling car. Matthew tossed his hat on the passenger seat, shaking out his damp hair.

He cranked up the heater to a toasty temperature and rolled out of the alley. What kind of dope was he, letting Leila touch him, discussing old times? She didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but delivering Harken to Legault and closing the stupid mission. To that end, he headed back to his flat, intending to get ready to meet one Isadora Watson.

Guy was long gone, as he’d expected, and so he wearily took the place on the couch. He stretched out and flicked on the radio. Loud music filled the tiny box of a room, the familiar opening lyrics of Corvus Kilvas’s “Only at Night” rising against the quick, jittery chords. Critics lauded the music for being “progressive” and like the beginning of a new era of music, and Guy generally ate it up.

Matthew only intended to rest for a minute, yet he awoke a hair after three. Matthew cursed, stumbled groggily to his feet, and made a beeline for the bathroom. His hair stuck up in clumps, mashed flat on the side he’d slept on, and stains peppered his shirt. He swore again. He couldn't speak to Isadora without shaming himself and Ursula both.

It took Matthew longer than he meant to get ready, but then he dashed to his cab with a newspaper held over his head as a makeshift umbrella. He checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, cracking a grin. His nicest bowler hat sat neatly over his hair, making him look older than twenty-four, and his pinstripe suit—the same one he’d worn to his school graduation—looked neat and new. His tie suffocated him, to be fair, and he loathed the “nice” wingtips that pinched his feet, but it was a small price to pay for information. After all, he looked the part of a good Lycian gentleman, even if he sped through the streets so quickly he nearly demolished his car a half dozen times.

He sprinted to reach Isadora’s door, holding his hat with one hand as the rain pummeled him. Matthew straightened himself up, took a deep breath, and slammed the heavy doorknocker against the wood.

The butler showed up promptly, an open smile on his face.

“Hey there, Mr. Matthew. Sorry I didn’t let you in the other day. I had no idea you were friends with Miss Corone!”

“Yeah, I’m not quite the sort of guy who usually shows up at a place like this,” he admitted. “I shouldn’t have been so ill-dressed earlier, though. Forgive my...most shameful lack of manners.”

The butler grinned wider.

“No problem! C’mon in—just follow me. I’m Wil, by the way. Wil Donnell.”

He held out a gloved hand to shake, before remembering his station and withdrawing it.

“You’ll be okay in the parlor while I go get Miss Watson, right?”

Matthew’s eyes widened as he looked around. The parlor’s arched ceiling rose high above him, an intricate chandelier bouncing light across the patterned wallpaper. His feet sank into the plush carpet.

Matthew leaned against the wall, uncomfortable with the rich mahogany furniture. The antique sword over the ornate fireplace glinted like the finest silver, and he couldn’t help but calculate how much it would fetch from collectors. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to quash the urge. Money wasn’t the issue here; he just needed to focus on whether to take off his hat or not.

Wil returned, balancing a silver tea-tray on one hand.

“You can sit down, if you want,” he said, setting his tray on the coffee table. “The armchair’s Miss Isadora’s, though. Take the couch, and, uh, don’t put your feet up.”

Matthew perched awkwardly on the edge of the sofa, crossed his legs, and steeled himself as Wil hurried to open the door.

Hearing tell of a lady-officer, Matthew had imagined someone like Leila: tomboyish, tough, warlike. Isadora Watson looked none of those. Her face was all eyes, and her hair spilled down her back, almost as long as Guy's. She wore a white suit jacket with padded shoulders, in the latest fashion, and a matching white skirt. To Matthew's surprise, she had scarcely any jewelry, just a blue-gemmed ring on her left hand.

Isadora smiled and took the seat across from him.

“Thank you, Wil. If I have need of you, I’ll call. Oh, and there are some cannoli in the ice box for you, if you’d like.”

“Oh, really? Wow, yeah! Thanks!” he said. He flashed Matthew a grin and hurried out of the room, leaving him alone with a policewoman. The thought made Matthew sweat a little. He didn’t have his gun and probably couldn’t outdraw her even if he did.

“Tea?” Isadora offered, already taking the top off the sugar bowl.

“Yes, please,” Matthew replied, reminding himself that he was supposed to be on his best behavior.

“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you before. I’m Isadora Watson.”

She held her hand out.

“Matthew Elliot,” he replied, taking it. Her grip felt like one of Linus’s handshakes, and he could feel the callouses on her palm.

She poured two cups of blisteringly strong Sacaen tea, adding cream and sugar at his word. She drank hers black in little ladylike sips, not so much as wincing at the overpowering flavor. He, in turn, wondered if it would be too forward to ask for a spot of liquor for his cup.

“It was nice of you to stop by. What is Ursula up to nowdays?” Isadora asked.

Matthew shrugged.

“Same old, same old. She's still doing all right. I'm really here on Guy's behalf.”

“Oh, really? How is Guy doing?”

“As well as could be hoped. He’s still a detective, you know, though he’s on security detail at the present time,” he replied.

A small smile touched her painted lips.

“Good to know that he’s doing all right. I couldn’t bear to think of harm befalling him.”

“I wouldn't worry. He’s quite the marksman--you should see him on the firing range. He could take the wings off a fly!”

“That’s the first good news I’ve heard in days. Ever since Harken disappeared, things have been hard,” she said. She looked like she wanted to say more, but she cut herself off with a sigh.

“Guy’s looking into it.”

“What? Why? Why would he risk himself over something even we can’t solve?” Isadora demanded, her voice pained.

 _Good question,_ Matthew thought sourly. Outwardly, he said:

“You know him, ma’am. An unsolvable challenge, a wild situation, personal investment…He’s on it like fur on a dog. That’s…actually why I’m here, Ms. Watson.”

“If you would like me to talk him out of it, I would be more than happy to,” she said, a hollow look of despair in her dark eyes.

“Well, er, no, not quite. I was actually looking for the opposite. He’s been doing a grand job on this case of his and I was looking for a spot of help.”

“Guy knows I can’t share any police information,” she reprimanded lightly.

“…Of course. He’s so busy working his job, though, that I just want to do something to help…Isn’t there anything about Chief Griflet that you can tell us?” he pleaded.

“There is nothing to say about Harken that would help either of you,” Isadora said. “The Black Fang didn’t take him from me for his gentle eyes or his concern for all of his people. They…There’s nothing he did to warrant this. Nothing beyond his rank. I’m sorry, Mr. Elliot, but you’ll have to tell Guy that I cannot aid him.”

“It wasn’t the Black Fang,” Matthew said.

Isadora’s head jerked up in a quick, birdlike movement, her eyes fixed with wary hope on his.

“Or, at least, it wasn’t the Angel of Death. That’s what Guy said. I mean, I’m sure you police already knew that, but…”

“I would rather the Black Fang were involved. They have caused us much grief over the years.”

He shifted nervously, taking a drink of tea in order to avoid answering.

“So, even if I cannot say for certain that it was them, I would like to believe it. They took Mr. Tirel from us, took dearest Harken, and nearly took me…”

“What?” Matthew asked. “What do you mean, they nearly killed you?”

A hint of pink touched her cheeks.

“It’s nothing important. I was supposed to go alongside Harken, but Mr. DeVere needed my help, and it was only a routine patrol, so…” Isadora said.

Matthew choked on his tea.

“That’s…a nice coincidence,” he coughed. “This wouldn’t happen to be _Legault_ DeVere, would it?”

“Well, yes, but how do you know him?”

“…Family friend,” he muttered evasively. “I didn’t know he’d taken up police work, though.”

 _What the hell was going on?_ he thought. Legault didn’t consort with the government. He had helped found the Black Fang, although back then he’d been little more than a ragged bastard with sticky fingers, by his own account. He loved the Black Fang heart and soul, though. There must have been a good reason. Matthew couldn’t begin to believe otherwise.

“He comes by occasionally. Mr. DeVere lives in a bad part of town, and he’s been most helpful in pinpointing criminals. He’s a good man.”

 _And one of the Black Fang you so hate,_ Matthew thought, forcing a weak smile.

“He is. If he's so well-informed, maybe he knows something about Harken?”

“He couldn’t,” Isadora immediately responded. “…I mean, I doubt an Ilian would be wandering the streets of Badon in the middle of the day.”

He shivered. Her logic made sense—it was a three hour drive from Ilia to Badon on a good day—but it still chilled his blood. Legault had been absent for days…but there was no way she could have known that. The reassuring weight of the flick knife in his pocket soothed his frayed nerves.

“So there's nothing else you can tell me?” he asked.

“I'm afraid not. Thank you for visiting, though. You've been wonderfully nice, Mr. Elliot.”

“Yeah, any time. It was nice meeting you, Miss Watson.”

“Ah, yes. It was my pleasure. Please wish Guy the best for me.”

He politely shook her hand again and rose to his feet.

“Do you need Wil to show you out?”

“No, thanks. I remember where the door is. I'll see you around!”

“Goodbye,” she said gently. Her voice held a soft, wistful note, like she regretted something. It almost made him turn around and apologize again for Harken’s disappearance, but a silent reminder that she was with the police quelled his concern. Instead, he walked out without looking back at the extravagant finery so casually shoved in his face.

The rain soaked him through and through from the moment he stepped out from under the porch roof. It made him long for the newspaper he’d left in his car, the one that he hadn’t had the sense to bring with him. Oh, he would have looked like a tramp, no doubt about it, but it would have kept the wet off him as he dashed across the lawn. Matthew catapulted himself into the seat and shook off the rain.

The storm broke as he crossed the bridge, apparently waiting just long enough to soak him at Isadora’s before moving on. It figured. His day had been a bloody mess. Isadora had nothing for him, and he'd made a fool of himself to Leila. The best he could look forward to was a cold beer and a chance to pal around with Guy.

He tossed the newspaper in the dumpster and made his way up the rickety staircase. The cabbie tiredly pushed open the door, loosened his tie, and made a beeline for the ice box.

“Where’ve you been?” Guy asked from the couch.

“Out,” Matthew said, grabbing a beer. They were down to one—he’d have to buy more later. He dropped his hat on the counter and snapped the top off the drink.

Guy scrambled to his feet, appraising him with wary eyes.

“You look nice. You never dress nicely,” he accused. “Where have you been?”

Matthew blinked, taken aback.

“What’s it matter to you? Since when did you care where I’ve been?”

“Since you started coming and going at real weird hours. Since you started messing with my stuff.”

Matthew stared blankly.

“You moved my files, I know you did.”

“Guy, I was trying to tidy up a little. Relax. As for where I’ve been going? If you absolutely must know, I’ve picked up a lady friend,” he sighed. It wasn’t wholly true, but Leila was a lady and she was his friend, and if it would get a suspicious detective off his tail, it’d do.

“Oh,” he said, shedding his agitation like a snake shedding skin. “Is this that cute passenger?”

“Yeah, she's been getting drinks with my mates and me. So there. Are you happy now?”

“Are you gonna be bringing her back here anytime soon?”

“What, do the whole ‘meet the flatmate’ thing? Please,” he laughed. Trust a moment’s misdirection to throw Guy for a loop.

“What’s her name?”

“Hm? Leila. Leila Beckett. Why?”

Guy’s eyes widened until it seemed they would pop out of their sockets.

“And…And she hangs out with you and your mates?” he asked, voice tight and squeaky.

“Yeah? Hello? Elibe to Guy. Come in, Guy. What’s your problem?”

He paused, face screwed up in an unreadable mask of tangled emotion.

“…Isn’t Lena the, uh, backup singer for Doppelgangr?”

Matthew barked a short laugh.

“Leila, not Lena. Elimine, you thought I was snogging some famous singer? Leila…oh, she's more like a blue-collar girl, kind of rough and tumble. Good joke, though.”

“Heh…yeah, I guess it was pretty dumb,” he said. Guy still wore a look of worry on his serious face, though, and he didn’t pursue the line of conversation.

A pang of fear touched Matthew. Had Guy somehow found him out? Staring at the Sacaen, no hint of malice on his too-honest features, Matthew didn’t think so. Guy would be in his face, waving that gun around haphazardly and demanding to know what was going on. Oh, he definitely wasn't telling Matthew something, but it likely wasn’t too important.

He dismissed the thought, mind wandering lazily back to Leila. He’d made a damn fool of himself, but he’d only spoken the truth. She was far more attractive than he’d originally given her credit for, her figure lithe and powerful, those gorgeous eyes magnetically drawing his. Matthew thought fondly of that grin of hers, catlike and always just shy of conspiratorial, her lips colored red by cheap lipstick…

He flushed, pushing the fantasy from his head.

“How was work?” he asked.

“Okay, I guess. I really think I don’t make a good security guard, though. I’m not exactly intimidating,” Guy said.

“You’re a real terror, Guy. I’m sure you’re doing fine.”

“Yeah…”

Matthew frowned at his friend’s non-answer, but decided to just let it all drop. He had things to do, like making sure Legault hadn’t suffered some unfortunate accident that kept him so damn occupied. Linus and the others kept assuring him that he was okay, but some suspicion chewed on him like a dog with a bone. It wasn’t like Legault to disappear like that, with no warning, no way to contact him. Something must have gone wrong.

He knew in his heart that Legault wouldn’t be at The Full Moon, and that heading out would be useless. Matthew tamped down his worry. He instead got up and pawed through the cabinets, looking for food. He hadn't eaten enough in the past few days, preoccupied with the Harken deal. He popped the top off of a tin of ravioli and grabbed a fork, too lazy to heat it.

“You hungry?” he asked, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth.

Guy shook his head.

“Already ate. Thanks, though. I might be heading out later to meet up with Heath again.”

“Don’t you go wandering around after dark. You know how dangerous it is.”

“Yeah, yeah, Mum. Doesn’t seem to stop you.”

“I’ve got a car,” he returned. _And gang protection,_ he added silently. “Who pissed in your cereal?”

Guy shot him a dirty look and turned on the radio.

“Fine,” Matthew muttered under his breath.

He didn’t try to make conversation for the rest of the night, avoiding his suspiciously sullen friend.


	6. The Murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Old at being young_  
>  _Young at being old_  
>  _Everything's been sold to others' revolutions_  
>  \-- _Alternative Girlfriend_ , Barenaked Ladies

True to form, he drove to the rec room early in the day, mulling over his plan of attack. The only lead he had was the squished bullet in his pocket, the one Leila insisted Harken hadn’t fired.

Ursula and Jerme had an unenthusiastic game of billiards going when he got there. Matthew's eyes flickered to the couch, all too eager to see Leila again, especially after his dreams the night before….His cheeks grew hot at the thought, the image of her sweat-soaked body burned on the backs of his eyelids. To his surprise, she wasn’t there, and at that hour, he couldn’t imagine where else she could have gone off to. She wouldn’t have stayed at the boarding house, after all.

“Hey, kid,” Ursula said.

“Hey,” he replied. “Anything new?”

“Angel of Death is finally back,” she said, shrugging. She ignored the way Jerme’s lip curled and asked, “How was your meeting with Isadora? Did you find anything useful?”

He made a face.

“She didn’t have what Hurricane wanted. Speaking of which, have you seen him lately?”

“Not in a while, no. Why?”

“I thought he might have need of me, so I've been looking for him. It's nothing to worry about,” Matthew replied with faux cheeriness. A stab of fear touched him. Legault was gone. Leila was gone. Uhai was still trying to get over a bullet in him…Could it all be the same person? One shadowy, vengeful person sniping Fang members one by one? His mind uneasily brought up the way Isadora had too quickly insisted that Legault couldn’t know anything about the current situation.

Jerme cracked a savage grin.

“I think he did learn something from the police dog. Something he’s got to pass on to that weasel, Hurricane,” he said, his gun flickering into his hand like a bolt of lightning. He got in Matthew’s face in an instant, breath like a vulture's, gun jabbing into the cabbie’s stomach.

“I could feel his blood splatter, feed my weapon…” he growled, black eyes shining with a manic excitement. Matthew’s throat went dry, goose pimples pouring over his skin.

“Death Kite! Desist! That’s an order!” Ursula yelled, drawing her own weapon.

Jerme smiled wickedly, but he put up his gun.

“Give it time,” he whispered, walking back to the table.

Matthew staggered back against the wall, his knees wobbling. Too late did he remember his own weapon. Instead, he’d just stood there like a terrified child, breath coming in short gasps.

Ursula glared daggers at Jerme.

“What do you think you’re doing? Matthew is under our orders. He’s no more a traitor than I am. Hurricane outranks you, if you don’t remember.”

Jerme snarled animalistically, but he said nothing.

“Hey, uh, have you seen Leila?” Matthew asked.

“Why do you care?”

“Hurricane's gone, Leila’s gone, Soaring Hawk and Angel of Death are half dead…Can you blame a bloke for worrying?”

“She’s with Sir Ephidel,” Ursula said simply.

His heart contracted painfully as he imagined the fresh injuries that would be splattered across her skin like splotches of paint hurled wildly by a psychotic artist. He could plainly see the way she would bite her lip and look away, too proud to admit the pain that cut into her. Ephidel didn’t deserve to order people around if he treated his own men like that! Matthew couldn’t help but think of the same callousness he had observed earlier, the way his own so-called brothers in the Black Fang tossed each other aside so heartlessly.

For the first time since he joined the Fang, Matthew doubted them. Their cause was righteous, and they had been the closest to a family that he’d had, but he doubted them. He looked over at Jerme’s crazed expression, insanity clear in his eyes, and wondered why they tolerated so many breaches of conduct from one like him. Jerme didn’t care about his fellows, the government, or anything besides satisfying his sick thirst for blood and the oblivion of heroin. So few of them did care about those core ideals anymore.

It didn’t matter, he reasoned. People like Nino and Lloyd and Legault still stood for what was right, and he would follow them until the end.

“So your mission isn’t going too well?” Ursula asked.

“Unless you can tell me what type of gun fired this, no,” he said, pulling out the crumpled bullet.

Ursula looked at it for a moment before handing it back.

“I can’t say quite what that is, no. If you really want to know, you might want to take it to Farina. She’ll help.”

“Who?” Matthew asked.

“The storeowner of Murphy and Huey’s. It’s a munitions shop up in Ilia for those of us who need ammo outside the law,” Ursula explained. “Farina's not cheap, but she might be able to tell you something.”

“Hey, really? Sounds great. You’re a lifesaver, Ursula,” he said, doffing his hat.

“I’m coming,” Jerme cut in. “I need more ammo.”

Cold, sick fear settled in Matthew's gut. He could still feel that gun pressed against him, hard and unrelenting, see the wild gleam of excitement in Jerme’s eyes. He looked calm enough, as if he’d forgotten his attack, and he’d probably shrug and claim he’d just been playing. Matthew knew Jerme didn’t dare disobey Ursula, yet he couldn’t quite bring his tremulous body to accept that, to slough off his anxiousness.

“…I’ve got somewhere to go first. My flatmate—“

“Bullshit.”

Matthew clenched his jaw, fingers closing around the knife in his pocket. He wasn’t fool enough to pull steel on Jerme, knew he would die before he could, but it offered some smidgeon of comfort.

Death Kite’s eyes followed the movement, and he bared his teeth in a silent laugh, their bases dark and rotted from tobacco and Elimine only knew what else. That gun danced into his hand again, tarnished metal flowing through his long fingers like quicksilver, and those eyes dared him to move.

“…Really, I need to pick up a spot of beer and do the washing.”

“Matthew,” Ursula started, rolling her eyes. “With the cops so twitchy, we need everyone armed. If he fucks with you, trust me, we’ll give him hell.”

Her eyes narrowed, a silent warning, and she held eye contact with Jerme until he looked away.

“C’mon,” Matthew muttered discontentedly, stalking out. Jerme followed on his heels like a ghast, eyes darting with nervous energy.

Matthew flicked on his tape player on the way down to Ilia. Xane Chaney’s jarringly peppy voice crackled through the static, while Jerme cleaned his yellowed nails with his flick knife. They carried on the drive in utter silence besides that staticky music. It was a tense, awkward silence, but preferable to the cutting remarks Jerme usually made.

Bern slipped into Ilia without any official demarcation, but the buildings reflected the change; they grew even more rundown and low to the ground, the roofs patched a dozen times over and the paving-stones cracked and torn up. The taxi shook and thumped as it traversed potholes and bare patches of ground. Despite how broken it was, however, no homeless bums and wayward pickpockets waited on the streets. Ilia was a starving, desperate land, barely contained by its honor and sense of sisterhood. Hungry eyes watched them from the doorways as they rolled up the narrow alley that Jerme had indicated.

The munitions shop was a nondescript little building nestled between two others that looked just like it. Weather and time had peeled and chipped the paint, and the faded sign in the window that said MURPHY & HUEY’S in bold letters served as the only indicator that Matthew had even found the right place. Matthew parked right outside, close enough that he could watch his car through the window, and swung out of the seat.

The woman at the counter watched him with a cocky smirk as he walked in, a pistol in her hand. Farina stood lightly on her feet, her short hair tangled and messy. He would've bet money that she'd beaten up or killed unruly customers before; she had the same easy combativeness as Leila did. The boxes of ammo and the weapons on the shelves, which crowded close and scraped the low ceiling, made her trade apparent. The flickering light failed to illuminate the cavelike room with any modicum of decency.

Matthew walked across the room, flashing his best smile.

“Afternoon,” he began.

“Same to you. What business’ve you got in Murphy and Huey’s? Need a few weapons? Got everything from peashooter to hand cannon, though with a Fang bloke like you, I’d reckon you want something a bit more specialized.”

“Who said we were with the Black Fang?” he demanded.

“I know most of your crowd, and I know Death Kite over there,” she said, nodding at Jerme. “Haven't seen your face before, but it’s all same to me. So what do you want?”

“Death Kite here needs some bullets, but I’m in the market for something a little different.”

He leaned casually against the counter.

“I’m looking for information.”

“Pity. I deal in arms,” she said, propping up her head with one hand, short hair curling around her fingers.

Matthew fished in his pocket for the bullet. The woman’s gun was trained on him, her eyes suspicious, narrowed, but he only placed the squashed slug on the counter.

“Lemme rephrase—I need to know what kind of gun could fire this,” he said.

She picked it up, twirled it between her fingers, and looked back at him.

“Sold a box of these last week. I’d recognize 'em anywhere. Sure, I could tell you…For a price,” she said, grinning. “Four gold ought to do it.”

“Four?” he yelped. “That’s a month’s rent! Four copper, maybe!”

Farina laughed, mocking and sharp.

“You’re asking for stuff you Fang brats won’t find anywhere else. I’m Farina Bellerophon. I’m the best in the market. We’re talking at least a gold for our, heh, noble information. And that’s being real generous.”

“A gold? You’d better tell me who was buying, for that kind of price,” Matthew said, feigning disinterest.

“I don’t always cooperate with the law, kid. You think I’m going to sell out a very, very high-paying customer to whoever tosses a scrap of food my way? Ilians are poor, but we ain’t that poor, you fool. You pay a premium here for good weapons _and_ security. One gold and I’ll say what make of gun fired this. Take it or leave it.”

Matthew grudgingly dug out a coin. He and Guy really didn’t have the money to spare, but with the promotion Legault promised, he’d make it back. He set the coin on the counter, palm over it.

“Information first.”

“No guarantee that you’ll keep your side of the bargain. Money first, then we’ll talk.”

The cabbie slowly dropped his hand to the side. He wasn't in much of a position to bargain hard. Farina snatched up the coin and pocketed it in a second. She dug under her counter for a moment and pulled out a musty magazine, flipping it open to display a long-barreled revolver.

“All right. This here’s from an Exaccus M17. Old Bernese military revolver that hasn’t been used in the force since, oh, fifty years ago. Can’t even buy them most places anymore. I only keep the ammo for a nice person with a spot of coin.”

Matthew thought for a moment.

“Do you think any other ammo shops would carry these?”

“Hell if I know. Maybe a place out in Bern, maybe some specialty dealer, but probably not many,” she said. “That’s all I’ve got for you, so if you aren’t buying, scram.”

She twirled her little handgun and grinned. Matthew, in turn, nodded curtly and walked out. He loitered outside while he waited for Jerme to finish his purchases.

So it was a rare gun. Bernese military, Farina had said, and certainly Bern’s desperate people would have motivation to kidnap or kill the police chief. A military vet might also be marksman enough to snipe Jaffar. On top of that, as the home of the Black Fang, Bern was even a hotbed of discord and civil unrest. But all the same, the Fang prowled Bern’s streets, and they knew nearly everything that occurred. Maybe the old owner of the gun had sold it, or someone seized it, or stole it, or lost it. He didn’t have the time to knock on every door looking for an antique gun, not when all of the police’s searches and seizures failed to even locate Harken!

“Excuse me!” a voice said. “Loitering isn’t legal out here.

The dreadfully familiar purple-and-gold Lycian police uniform was right in front of him. Matthew’s heartrate skyrocketed, and he looked nervously from the brunette man on the left to the timid woman to the right.

“I’m just waiting on a chap to finish his shopping, then we’ll be off. No worries,” he replied. “Say, what’re a pair of Lycian cops doing out in Ilia?”

“We’re investigating a—“

Jerme burst through the doors, his eyes narrowed to slits, cutting off his words.

“You little rat!” he snarled, seizing Matthew by the shoulder.

With strangled cries of “Death Kite!”, the cops drew their weapons.

Before Matthew could blink, Jerme’s gun jumped into his hand. With three deafening cracks, a blur of motion, and the smell of gunpowder, the officers crumpled to the ground.

“Holy fuck, Jerme!” he shouted, staring at the bleeding, ghostly figures, their faces contorted in weak grimaces. The man clutched his chest, eyes glassy, unfocused, not a sound emerging from his lips. The woman made a low whimpering sound, her gun lying mere feet from her, blood pouring from her leg, her chest. They wouldn’t last five minutes.

Matthew ran. He didn’t care if Jerme was on his heels or not, but the gunshots would surely draw attention, the dying police would draw attention. His heart hammered a vicious staccato against his ribcage, harsh and powerful, and the foggy Ilian skyline swam in his vision, spun, storefronts blurring and footfalls loud and—

He slammed into the side of his cab, numb fingers fumbling over the icy door handle. His keys slipped out of his hands once, twice, and then he threw the door open and tumbled into the familiar embrace of warm cloth seats and the smell of smoke and cologne. Jerme had already gotten in, his smile like a knife-edge.

People poked their heads onto the street, and Matthew gunned it, tires squealing as if they were in pain.

“Talking with your buddies, were you?” Jerme asked pleasantly.

“I don’t know or care about the council dogs,” he replied. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and his gut was liquid, cold and tumultuous. He felt like his heart was trying to tear a hole in his flesh so his blood and bone and soul could spill out.

“You should be glad Blue Crow is looking out for you, otherwise, well. There might be an accident. Your skin would make a good rug.”

“Can you just shut up?” Matthew demanded. “I was right there with you, fighting them, okay? If you think I wouldn't make the government pay, watch the chief consul dying at my hands, well...You're wrong.”

He dropped Jerme off as soon as he could, then he stalled in the heart of Fang territory, the radio jarring, his arms wrapped around himself and his knees drawn up to his chest.

His companions had all killed before; some, like Lloyd, dealt almost exclusively in murder. The thoughts couldn’t make the pounding of his head and the pounding of his heart subside, though. He knew in that moment that the Black Fang shouldn't have condoned that. Killing didn't bother him, but killing indiscriminately, without purpose? That wasn't their way. That had never been their way. The cabbie let out a rattling breath. His car felt freezing, the mist outside fogging his windows and sending fingers of frost scratching at the glass.

Someone’s knuckles rapped on the window, the sound sharp and clear. Matthew's head snapped up, breath cutting the air.

A shock of wine-red hair and bloodless, pale skin showed through the fogged window. Matthew threw open the door, the frigid damp rushing in to overtake him. Leila’s eyes were dark, haunted, the mirror to his.

“Hey,” she said, voice hoarse. Her eyeliner smudged her cheekbones and cast a disheveled, ghastly aura over her. She looked like she’d been crying.

“Hey,” he said. Matthew swallowed the lump of doubt that caught in his throat, and found he choked on it, the feeling lodging painfully in his chest. “What’re you doing out here?”

Leila let herself in the passenger side, slamming the door shut. She huddled into her jacket and into the seat, her frame compressed so she seemed like a wounded cat, small and miserable. She numbly adjusted his heater.

“I saw your car and thought you might have needed a hand,” she replied, eyes like dying souls beneath lids too heavy to lift all the way.

“What are you talking about? I'm fine,” he said tightly.

“I saw Jerme.”

He slumped against the window, the glass like ice under his cheek. Matthew’s eyes wandered to the dingy cityscape outside the windscreen.

“He's forsaken the Black Fang way. Hell, maybe everyone else has, too, and I'm just hanging off of Hurricane's stories, but...White Wolf would never gun down a pair of innocent police in the middle of the street just for existing.”

Leila stared ahead, jaw clenched.

“Have you ever killed someone, Leila?”

She mutely shook her head in short, jerky movements. Matthew slowly licked his lips and nodded. He tipped the brim of his hat so that it hid his eyes, hid her bruised body and haunted look, and pulled his jacket a little closer.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said, voice high and pained. “Ephidel, the Black Fang….Matthew, I can’t do it.”

“...We don't have much of a choice. Anyone in this city would kill us in a second if it would improve their own shitty existence. We’ve got to stay with them.”

“What about Guy?”

“Mocked, hated for being Sacaen in this city?”

“He’s your family, though. I’ve only got…”

She cut herself off, jaw clenched proudly. Matthew couldn’t help but notice the marks on her skin, the way her shoulders shook. He wanted to put his hand on her arm, but he thought better of it.

“I know they haven’t been the best to you…but maybe we can fix things?”

“I don't know,” Leila whispered. For a moment, her eyes were liquid, hurt, then she snapped her gaze away.

“Leila?”

“I have to go,” she said, fumbling with the door handle. Matthew hurried out of the car, heading her off as she tried to round the bonnet. He gently grabbed her by the wrist.

He wasn’t prepared for Leila to twist his arm behind his back like a trained martial artist. He yelped. She pushed him against the car, tense as a bowstring, before her mind seemed to catch up with the situation and she let him go. He massaged his shoulder and stepped back.

“Cripes, you nearly ripped my arm off! What the hell?”

“In my old line of work, if someone got their hands on you, you were dead. Sorry,” she said. She didn’t sound terribly apologetic, but she managed a stiff smile. “Why are you—a gangster—so torn up over Jerme killing someone?”

“I…What? I’m a thief, Leila. That’s what I did before joining the Fang. A petty thief with revolutionary dreams. I don't care if we have to kill someone to achieve those dreams, but...The Fang doesn't hurt innocents. That's what Mad Dog has always said. To see such a blatant violation of that...”

He shook his head, looking away.

“I don’t need the council or their worthless police to tell me that's wrong.”

“Then why did you join the Fang at all?”

“As I said, they’re family…They watch out for me, they care about their people. We can stand strong in the face of the oppression and wrongness of the king and the council,” he replied, standing a little straighter. “Or, well...We used to. Maybe things have changed.”

Leila’s lips parted slightly, her eyes wide.

“You’re an odd one, Matthew. You keep surprising me.”

He cocked his head to the side, a hesitant smile on his lips.

“Do you like surprises?”

“Sometimes,” she said, looking up at him. Her eyes were luminous, the light from the streetlamps casting a dazzling glow in them and bringing out every little shade of wine-brown-gold-rust-fulvous-chestnut that streaked them. She took a step, and then she leaned against him, slipping her arms around his waist. Matthew felt his heartbeat quicken.

“But then, there must be a better way to go about it,” she whispered, voice barely audible, her breath hot on his face. “Crime, terrorism…We just have the people scared. Are we really helping?”

He leaned forward a hair, and his forehead bumped against hers, her arms looped around his neck. Matthew’s blood tingled, his eyes unfocused to try and get a clear picture of her.

“I don't know anymore. But the Reed brothers, Soaring Hawk, Hurricane...Blue Crow, maybe...they'd die for this city.”

“Would you?” she breathed.

“I don’t know,” he said, shivering. He could feel every breath that she took, her chest rising and falling against his.

“Me, either,” Leila admitted. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly parted, and he unconsciously mimicked her. The dark bruises on her skin jumped out at him, red-and-purple.

He almost let her go with nothing more than a smile and a farewell. It would have been the right thing to do, he thought. Enough people had taken advantage of her already; he couldn’t bring himself to do the same. The choice was taken away from him when she leaned in, her lips brushing against his, and he stopped questioning it.

Leila slipped back out of his grip, her breathing heavy and her eyes wide. She smiled, flashing her teeth in a way she hadn’t before, hands slipping down his arms to hold his wrists. He grinned, sloppy and out of breath.

“If it ever comes down to it, Matthew...I trust you,” she said.

He nodded solemnly.

“I’ll try not to let you down,” he murmured. “Do you still think you’ll leave the Fang?”

“I would be killed,” Leila said matter-of-factly, meeting his gaze with fierce, fearless eyes. “The cleaner would hunt me like a dog and I would die.”

“Given your circumstances, I can't think of anyone who'd call you a turncoat,” he soothed. “Most would sympathize.”

“Like they sympathize now? No, Matthew. I would be denounced, decried, _destroyed._ I’m here until the end.”

“What do you mean, the end?” he asked, surprised.

She hesitated, a pained expression coming to her face. For an instant, it looked like she was about to say something, then she cut herself off and mutely shook her head.

“Leila, what's going on? What’s going to happen?”

She slid her arms around him, resting her head on his chest.

“I don’t know. It just feels like this mess with Angel of Death, with Chief Griflet, is going to end badly. I can’t seem to catch my breath whenever I think about it.”

“Don't you worry! I’ll find the answer,” he insisted, squeezing her tighter.

She laughed, amused and biting and reassuring.

“Of course you will. …Thank you, Matthew.”

Leila slipped out of his arms and headed back to the Fang house without another word. He looked after her with a small smile, the weight of his impending deadline poised over him like a boulder. She needed him to find Jaffar’s shooter. The Fang needed him. He had one more day until Legault swooped in and snatched the case from him…presuming Legault was even still alive.

His encounter with Isadora rose unbidden to mind. Guy trusted her, and so did Ursula…but she seemed almost too familiar with Legault, too sure that he was uninvolved. Uhai had been gunned down when poking around her fiancé. Matthew believed she’d told the truth about not knowing where Harken was; her worry was so genuine that he couldn’t disbelieve it so easily. But Legault’s mysterious vanishing? He could have come in with another of his information-gathering false tip-offs and been beaten, sedated, arrested, interrogated. He could imagine his confident mentor lying broken in a jail cell, despair creeping over him and sapping the strength from him. Legault would hold his tongue until his life was taken, but Matthew would not wish that on anyone.

A half-baked idea floated on the outskirts of his mind. He couldn’t well break into the police station, but Isadora’s manse couldn't be that well guarded. He could easily tread through the halls, investigate, see if any clues could point him towards Legault…or towards Jaffar’s gunner. He wouldn’t be surprised if he found an old Bernese gun in her safe; a rich woman like Isadora could likely afford whatever sort of weapon she wanted.

The thought of the dead policemen in the Ilian streets twisted his gut and made him wonder if Isadora wouldn’t be a little justified in hunting the Black Fang. Jerme, Ephidel…they would deserve that sort of slaughter. Perhaps Nino had been wrong. Perhaps Jaffar deserved it, too. They were little more than monsters, animals armed with guns and knives….

He shook his head. Legault wasn’t part of that, nor was noble Uhai, and no matter how justified Isadora or anyone else might feel, it was his job to keep his family safe. He couldn’t let his doubts come between him and the Fang honor he still stood for. Matthew would need to get his preparations in order to make some kind of an effort. He had quite a few hours to go before it would be late enough to risk a break-in, after all.

The cabbie headed down to The Lion and Owl. He didn't really feel up to dealing with Raven, but he couldn't let down his best customer. His car idled as he thought of what he'd do.

He didn’t have a floor plan of Isadora’s manse, but he had gotten a good look at the security already. Locks on all of the windows, deadbolts on the doors, and the doorman, Wil, not to mention whatever sort of private security she might keep. He had absolutely zero chance of getting into her gun safe, to boot. He would have to park a few blocks away, walk over, and work out some kind of break in. There would have to be a quiet way to break open a window. He would need to take a screwdriver from his toolkit up in the kitchen closet to open the house, then try to paw through Isadora’s basement, her papers, wherever she might keep her gun, as any ammunition left out might point towards the weapon in question.

The sound of his back door opening broke off his musings.

“Afternoon,” Raven muttered as he settled in.

“Hey,” Matthew replied.

“You look like you forgot to drink your morning tea.”

“Today's really kind of awful. I'd rather not talk about it.”

“I wasn't going to ask,” he said.

“Oh, well, that's great, then....Hey, Raven? I feel like I should warn you that I might not be around to pick you up anymore,” he said suddenly.

Raven arched an eyebrow.

“I hope I didn't scare you off after all this time. It'd be a shame to have to find a new bloke to drive me around. I was starting to like you.”

“Nah, it's not you. I'm...well, I'm involved in something dangerous. It just didn't feel fair to abandon you without warning. You're a pretty decent fellow, yourself.”

In that moment, Matthew felt closer to him than he had in the weeks he'd been picking the redhead up. He regretted telling Guy that he'd never want to be friends with Raven. Maybe he'd misjudged him.

“If I were you, I wouldn't get caught up in anything big,” Raven said. “I did that myself, once. I know I don't know you, but my advice is to get out while you can. Elibe stomps on people who try to do dangerous things.”

“Thanks. I'll try to remember that. I...guess I won't be able to contact you if I can't make it.”

“Yeah, I guess not. You know I'll still be at The Lion and Owl, and you know when, so I figure you'll find me if you ever want to,” he replied with a shrug.

Matthew smiled as he pulled into Araphen.

“I'll see you around,” he said. Raven nodded and handed him his usual fare. He raised one hand in a wave as he walked away, and Matthew's grin widened.

He couldn't afford to feel sentimental for long, though; he had work to do. Matthew drove to a convenience store and purchased a sandwich, a six-pack, and a pair of thin gloves. The cashier didn’t ask questions, and Matthew didn’t offer a response. He ate in his car, music on low, a quiet sad tape characteristic of the Macedonia Whitewings. The sky shattered, a fine spider-silk drizzle ticking off the taxi roof, cloaking Bern in a damp dark misery.

He broke in that night. His tools made short work of Isadora’s antique windows, and he tumbled silently into her parlor-room. Matthew didn’t dally there, heading to the next room, then the next, trying the doors. Darkness cloaked everything like a velvet blanket, but he didn’t dare turn on his torch without good cause. Not a sound stirred in the manse beyond the faint noise of his own breathing and quiet footfalls.

He faced disappointment with every new turn. Matthew kept a wide berth between him and the servants’ quarters, but most rooms he pushed through were dining rooms, powder rooms, closets and cupboards and a wide wealth of uselessness. At every turn, he found more photographs, more knickknacks, more potted plants and tea-table books. His only comfort was that he found no sign of Legault, no silver hairs caught in the rugs, no bloodstains splattered on the walls, no cries for help echoing from the basement. Hell, even his trademark trilby with its stupid purple ribbon was absent from the hatrack.

The cabbie found the stairs and took them, stepping on the edges so they wouldn’t creak, as slow and quiet as a wraith. The basement was carpeted and paneled, nothing like the creepy cobwebbed storage that constituted the only other basements he’d ever seen. Matthew padded through the rooms, seeing pool tables and tellies, armchairs and bookshelves, but no sign of Legault, or even a gun safe. Irritation growing, he prowled back up the stairs and wandered straight into the study across the hall.

The desk was neat and orderly, with few papers sitting out. His eyes could barely make out the text on them, so after a moment’s deliberation, he lit his torch. He combed the papers over with his eyes, seeing a pair of letters drafted to people he’d never heard of, a couple pay stubs and clock-out tickets, and, under a planner, a letter addressed to her in a familiar flowing hand. He swallowed thickly and picked it up.

_Dame Isadora,_

_I am dreadfully sorry to hear about Sir Harken, and I send my condolences. While I am fully confident in your department, I have taken the liberty to look into it myself. Nothing outside the law, I assure you! Thusfar, I only know a little, maybe nothing more than you do. Only that he is still alive._

_I know that's vague, and probably does not provide much in the way of comfort at this time. There isn’t anything more I can say, though. The trail ran cold at that point, and my…informant, if I may, won’t speak anymore on the subject. I promise you that it will be all right in the end, though, and that I will do my best to set your heart at ease._

_I know it must be hard to think of anything besides your fiancé at the moment, but you must remember that he wouldn’t want you to worry yourself to death over him. Stay strong, Dame Isadora. I’ll keep a sharp eye out._

_Legault DeVere_

_171 Fifth Street_

_Apartment #7_

_Candler, Ilia_

Matthew grit his teeth and stared. There was no way Legault was telling the truth. He had to be pulling a fast one on the police, someway, somehow. He probably tried to learn some secrets from Isadora, or lead her on false trails away from the Fang. The alternative was too grim to think of. If Legault went rogue…

Well, at least Matthew would have his address, he thought. He would have to stop in and pay a visit, one way or another, tomorrow. He just never expected he might have to go in armed.

…no, that couldn’t be right. The Black Fang’s ideals coursed through Legault’s veins, and their symbols colored his back black. He had fought and killed for them for as long as they’d existed. No way in hell he would betray him.

The part about the informant bothered him, though. Was there someone else working on the job? Did Legault not trust him? Damn it, it was supposed to be his big break, his chance to prove himself to the Four Fangs!

Matthew borrowed a pen from the desk and jotted down Harken and Legault's addresses on his arm. He longed to ask Leila what he should do, but he tamped the thought down. He didn’t need her to figure himself out. Matthew could handle that on his own. What he needed to do was go take a look for himself. The police had likely already ransacked Harken’s house searching for clues, but it could still be worth taking a look, especially since he was fresh out of leads.

He crept out of Isadora’s house the same way he came in, and then he walked four blocks to where he’d parked his car. The hour was late enough that most barflies and panhandlers had long since left the streets—too late for Matthew to warrant heading to Harken’s house. Instead, he made his way back to his flat, thoughts chasing each other in his head.


	7. The Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _The world begins to disappear_  
>  _The worst things come from inside here_  
>  _And all the king's men reappear_  
>  _For an egg man, falling off the wall_  
>  _He'll never be together again_  
>  \-- _Einstein on the Beach_ , Counting Crows

Matthew woke up bright and early, right as the sun began to crest the horizon. Elibe’s usual drizzle threatened to set in at any moment, from the smell of the air, cleaner than the usual smoky haze. He hoped it wouldn’t begin to pour before he managed to check out Harken’s place, but the sky had already darkened to a miserable grey.

He slid out of bed, rubbing at his eyes. 6:00 was far too early for his liking, but crime didn’t sleep, or, at least, he hadn’t in the last few days. Leila likely hadn’t, either. Matthew toyed with the idea of picking her up from the rec room. Maybe whatever information they found would be enough to raise her up to a real Fang member, too, and save her from the purple bruises and raw scratches that she didn’t deserve. Maybe she would get a nickname, too, something fierce and beautiful.

He absently dressed, pulling on jeans and a rugby shirt, and he headed into the kitchen.

“You’re up early,” Guy said as he munched on a scone.

“I’m picking up Raven,” he lied. “Yesterday he asked me specially to get him. Pain in the arse, I know, but...”

Guy stared at him for a moment, before he smiled.

“Yeah, that’d do it. Got to be the best cabbie in all of Elibe, right?”

“You got it. Speaking of, what are _you_ doing up this early?”

“I...I have work,” he replied, stumbling over his words.

“At six? Blimey, Guy, that sucks,” he said. He’d never known Guy to go in before eight, but then, Sacaens never lied, so it must’ve just been an anomaly. With all the intrigue in the past few days, with Legault’s strange letter and Isadora’s stranger words, there was something to be said for Guy’s straightforward honesty.

“Yeah,” Guy replied with a weak smile. “I’ll be gone real soon.”

“Right, right. I’m going to grab breakfast and probably be out there in a few, myself.”

Guy nodded before he stood up, grabbed his hat, and opened the door.

“See you later,” he said.

“Yeah, bye.”

His flatmate stepped outside and shut the door, and in a moment, Matthew couldn’t even hear his footsteps on the rickety stairs. Something was definitely going on with Guy that he wasn’t talking about, but he could worry about it later. Guy would still be moping around and getting irritated tomorrow; Legault would not still be waiting around for him then. He sighed and picked up a scone off the counter.

Matthew flipped through the paper as he chewed on his meal. Commissioner Griflet took the headline for the sixth day running. They still used the same black-and-white photo of him, shoulders straight, his police uniform neatly pressed. There was something sad about it, almost, greyscale and somber. For the first time, Matthew wondered what Harken was like. Isadora believed so strongly in him, and so did Guy. He was one of the council’s dogs, of course, part of the problem, but wasn’t he someone’s friend, someone’s hero, someone’s lover? Didn’t he think he was doing the right thing?

Matthew shook his head. Talking to Leila had muddled his brain up too much. He needed to stop questioning and just do what he was told. With all that had gone on, though, he knew he couldn’t go in unarmed. His shitty flick knife wouldn’t help much against…whatever he might find.

He pulled his gun out of his sock drawer, quickly looked it over, and slid it into the pocket of his jacket. After a moment’s thought, he grabbed a couple extra magazines. Matthew knew he was a poor shot, a much better thief than a killer, but all their best killers had already been gunned down, so maybe they needed a thief.

His footsteps rang out on the rusted stairs, and then he jogged towards his car. The humidity in the air made him sweat already, and he was glad to make it to the relative safety of his vehicle. As he fiddled with his tapes, he heard a dull “thud.” Matthew froze. He slowly looked around, reaching for his gun, but all he saw was a dirty greyhound nosing around the trash.

“You’re jumping at shadows,” Matthew muttered, sliding his key into the ignition.

His earlier thoughts of Leila returned. She would want to join him, he was sure, and if the glory of finding Harken—and Jaffar’s shooter—would be enough to win him his tattoo, maybe it could also win her freedom from Ephidel. Of course, if the Fang was operating correctly, she would never be in that situation. Legault’s tales of Brendan Reed’s leadership made all the Black Fang sound like they had been the same. No one would have been tossed as a reward to Brendan Reed or any of the others. Why, then, did everyone just accept Ephidel’s right to lay hands on Leila? More than that—why did they blame and judge her for it? Why didn’t Nergal step in and do anything to stop his lieutenant?

Maybe he and Legault could fix it, Matthew thought. White Wolf, Mad Dog, Blue Crow…All of the old Black Fang could do something to make it like it used to be.

He hesitated a moment at the intersection, then resolutely turned towards Bern. Harken’s house could wait a few more minutes.

Jerme leaned against the alley wall that lead into the rec room parking lot, a cigarette between his fingers. He bared his rotting teeth in a terrible grin as Matthew pulled up.

“Roll down your window,” he said, walking with quick jittery steps. By Matthew’s eye, he looked even more rundown than he had the day before, hair greasy and flecks of blood still crusted in his clothes.

“I’d really love to,” he started with a smile, “but—“

Jerme’s gun flickered into his hand.

“Right, right, that works, too,” he said, rolling it down halfway.

“What’s your game, huh?” he demanded, pushing his face into the car.

“What do you mean? I’m here to see Leila. Owes me a couple games of cards.”

“The bitch isn’t here. I’m wondering why you’d show your traitor hide here and expect me not to cut you into beautiful ribbons.”

“Come now, really? You know I’m doing Hurricane’s work. He’s got me out in Pherae, looking into the shooting.”

Jerme’s dark eyes narrowed.

“I don’t believe you. No one’s seen Hurricane since that bastard Jaffar got himself shot. Instead, you’re talking to cops. Funny, huh?”

“I helped you take them out, remember? No? Well, I did. I’m good. Now, I’m going to finish Hurricane’s business before he skins me alive,” he said. Jerme snarled and slammed his fist on the bonnet, but Matthew hit the accelerator, knocking the other man aside and tearing out of there in a squeal of rubber. His eyes flicked to the mirror. Jerme had stumbled back to his feet, but he wasn’t giving chase.

“I am so going to die,” Matthew muttered as he tore through the early morning streets, nearly running over a cyclist as he merged onto Pherae’s main thoroughfare. He didn’t think that Jerme would ever believe him. Maybe he wouldn’t ever be safe with him around.

He shivered. Jerme had never been a problem when Matthew was a petty pickpocket. It was only when he tried to outstep his bounds that this mess started.

Matthew pushed the thought out of his head. He still had to find Chief Griflet. He had ten hours left until Legault expected him. Finish the mission, then worry.

He checked the scrap of paper in his hand one more time. 261 Pale Flower Way. According to the maps in his glove compartment, it was just a few blocks from Isadora’s manse. He barely needed the address to tell him which house was Harken's, though; a thin line of police tape blocked off the front door of one little home, a sooty-grey thing with a pair of windowboxes with half-dead plants. Matthew glanced around as he drove past. Most of the other buildings’ windows were dark, and no one walked the streets that early. Most importantly, though, no police Warhorses occupied the road.

He drove through, and after a few minutes, doubled back, coming to park on the side of the road a few houses down. He pushed his hat down over his hair and climbed out of his cab.

Matthew hesitated at Harken’s doorstep.

“All righty, then. Here we go,” he said, slicing the police tape with his flick knife, picking the lock, and opening the door.

Darkness looked back at him. He slipped into the house, letting the faint beams of sunlight fall through the crack and illuminate the way. Matthew crept forward, fumbling with the lamp.

Nothing cluttered the floor or the tables. He couldn’t tell if Harken was just military-clean or if the police had taken most of his possessions back to the precinct, but he could see precious little in the way of evidence. A couple pictures of Isadora on the tables, a little Pheraen flag pinned over the mantle, some souvenir knickknacks, a couple hats on the rack by the door…It looked sickeningly like a print advert for the all-Lycian family. At the very least, there weren’t bullet shells and bloodstains.

He wandered into the bedroom, peering around. That, at least, looked more lived-in. Some of his laundry cluttered the floor, although Harken had neatly made his bed with hospital corners. Still, Matthew didn't see anything when he poked around the nightstand or the closet. Desperately, he checked the watercloset, finding nothing but a smattering of toiletries.

Thinking of Isadora's manse, he tried checking by the desk, back in the main room. The papers laying out had nothing more than some to-do lists or tax forms. He turned to the wastebin, pulling out pieces of paper. A half-filled lost item report, a few blurry photographs of Isadora, an ink-stained envelope, a couple receipts. Nothing important. As he went to toss them back out, he caught a glimpse of the back side of the envelope. In quick capital letters, it read, “MEET THE HURRICANE BY THE DOG TRACKS, 14:00.” Matthew felt his blood chill.

He knew where Harken was.

“Freeze,” someone said, and Matthew heard the gut-wrenching sound of a gun being cocked.

Pity he wouldn’t live long enough to do anything about it.

“Okay, relax, I’m not moving,” Matthew said. His heartbeat quickened in his chest. Did he have time to draw his own gun? No, there wasn’t any cover. He wouldn’t be able to hide his movements. If he’d been smart, he would’ve already had the weapon out. Then again, he’d gone in stupidly, his back to the outside, so preoccupied with the papers that he hadn’t even heard the footsteps behind him.

“Hands up where I can see them.”

Matthew obliged, but he hesitated a second. He knew that voice.

“Guy?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Don’t you question me, though. Black Fang.”

“…Pardon?” he asked, heart thudding erratically.

“You heard me. How could you do this to me, Matthew? All this time with me scrambling around, y’know, looking into this mess, and you were the bastard behind it the whole time,” Guy replied, his voice trembling.

He circled around Matthew, his thin face scrunched into a dazed sort of frown. He didn’t look like a detective or a cop even with his gun; he walked slow and fluid like a Sacaen street kid, his hat crookedly mashed over his hair, but the hands that held that weapon didn’t shake.

“How’d you figure it out?”

Guy paused a moment, like he was thinking his options through.

“Leila,” he said at last. “You said she was hanging out with you and your friends, but that couldn’t be right. She’s one of the precinct’s best detectives, but she’s been out on a case for a while now, and—”

“Cripes,” Matthew muttered. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest. All that time that he'd helped her out, treated her nicely, stood up for her, and she'd been a traitor. She’d been playing him like a fool, and he’d stupidly fallen for everything she’d said. Of course she was a cop. He thought about her quick, easy marksmanship, like she’d practiced on a firing range half her life, about the way she’d disarmed and subdued Nino in a second, about the way she’d twisted his arm and slammed him against the bonnet of his own car.

He thought about the way she’d kissed him, his cheeks flushing. She’d said she believed in him, trusted him. Matthew wanted to believe that she hadn't lied then. It hurt to think about.

“She was investigating this Fang case, last I heard, right? So I figured that if you’re out there, and you’re hanging out with Detective Beckett, well, that meant maybe you were involved. Then you’ve been coming and going at weird hours, even for you, and rifling through my stuff. I got this call from Miss Isadora about you visiting, and then you turned up on the news...”

“Wait, the news? What do you mean, I’m on the news?”

“When you and Death Kite shot those officers in Ilian. You…You killed Sain, but Florina managed to survive, despite your best efforts, and she gave a description of you two. I may not be the brightest bloke, but I can put two and two together! So I stowed away in your car, all right? And I heard you talking to that man, just a little bit ago, and…and you confessed! You killed an officer! That's just so...so...What the hell, Matthew?”

“I lied,” he said, quick and clipped. “Death Kite, he’s totally unhinged, you don’t know what he’s like. He was about to shoot me, you know, and I'm...I'm not a brave sort. I panicked. But I didn’t kill anyone! You’ve got to believe me.”

Guy paused, grinding his teeth.

“You better tell me what happened. I...I don’t know if I believe you, but you better tell me everything.”

“Yeah, of course. Would you mind lowering your weapon, though?”

“It’s protocol,” he muttered, but he nonetheless let his hands fall to his sides. He didn’t holster the gun, but Matthew didn’t really blame him.

“All right. It’s a bit long to give the whole of it, but…I’ll cut to the important bits. Yeah, I run with the Black Fang, but I’ve never hurt anyone, really. I’m a pickpocket, a shoplifter, just like I was in secondary school. I know, I know I told you I gave that up, and I’m really sorry, but that’s it. Never even fired my gun off the range. Anyway, I got asked to find whoever it was that grabbed Harken, so that’s what I’ve been doing all week. Poking around and asking questions, all pretty much legal. I just happened to get caught up in something way over my head—Death Kite followed me somewhere and killed that officer who was just walking by. Now I’m just trying to find your stupid police chief and get out before this gets any worse.”

“It gets better here, though. I actually did it! I know where Harken is,” Matthew said.

Guy’s breathing visibly quickened.

“You do? Is…is he alive? Is he okay? Where is he?”

Before Matthew could answer, the door creaked open. They both spun just in time to face an ugly pistol and the grinning rotted teeth of Death Kite. His gun went off once and Guy dropped to the floor with an awful shout.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jerme hissed. “Chatting with one of your council buddies? Sad that he won’t be talking much longer.”

He laughed, raspy and vicious. Matthew’s fingers slowly moved to his own weapon.

_Stall for time, Elliot_ , he thought.

“Bastard,” Guy cursed, clutching his leg. Quiet sobs shook him, his teeth gritted so tightly it was a wonder he didn't crack them.

Jerme grinned and chambered another round.

“You idiot. He was about to tell me—“

“Liar,” Jerme cut in. He fired again, and Guy subsided with a weak moan. “Traitor.”

“I told you, I’m working for Hurricane—“

“I don’t give a shit about Hurricane. Him and Angel of Death and those fucking Reed brothers? Traitors and cowards and council sympathizers, corrupting the Fang, stealing glory from Sir Nergal. I heard so from Sonia herself! We're going to clean house of all you fucking idiots!”

“Now, you and I disagree there,” Matthew said, wrapping his fingers around the grip of his gun. “Some would say you’re just a dumb, rabid beast. Some would say you’re worth nothing.”

“Oh, are you going to shoot me? You, the worst coward the Fang’s ever seen? You’re going to shoot the Death Kite?”

He barked out another laugh.

“I could kill you before you could blink!” Jerme said.

Matthew squeezed the trigger. He fired again, and again, and again, emptying his whole clip into him. Jerme was still laughing when his body hit the ground, eyes staring blankly into space. Matthew didn’t have time to worry, though; Guy still struggled with his gunshot wounds, his breath coming weakly and muffled crying shaking him.

“Guy! Hey, now, don’t move. You’ll be okay.”

“That…that was…Death Kite, right?” he murmured. Tears streaked his cheeks and his hands clutched, white-knuckled, at his leg.

“Yeah. I…well, he’s on his way to getting all stiff and cold on us. I guess I just lied about not being a killer.”

The detective cracked a lopsided smile.

“That isn’t lying…Ooh, damn, this really hurts.”

Matthew frowned and pulled off his jacket, pressing it to Guy’s side. He swore fiercely.

“C'mon, I've seen you worse than this before. Remember when Batta ground your face into the asphalt? You bounced right back from that.”

“I dunno if I'll make it through this one,” he replied, and Matthew froze. “Maybe not...got me in the knee and up here.”

“I'm going to call for help. Just...stay where you are.”

“Like I could move!” Guy yelped, but he clutched his chest and any further words were cut off by coughing.

Matthew grabbed Harken's phone and hesitated. He knew that, as soon as he mentioned gunshots or Death Kite, the police would come alongside the clerics. If Guy had been able to put two and two together, any of the police could. Couple that with his illegal firearm and Jerme's body bleeding all over the carpet, and...

He turned the dial and picked up the phone.

“This is Lycia Emergency Center. State your business..”

“There's no time! A detective just got shot by Death Kite. He's not doing well. We're at 261 Pale Flower Way, Pharae. Hurry!”

He hung up before they could say anything else, heading back to Guy.

“The clerics'll be here in a few, and they'll patch you back up. You'll be fine.”

“You really didn't lie...huh? Pretty decent for a Black Fang,” he said with a weak smile.

“A lot of us were,” he said. “Revolutionaries like White Wolf, instead of all these thugs like Death Kite. The Fang is ruined, though. Bastards like Ephidel, beating the shit out of Leila...I'd kill him, too.”

Guy nodded, but he didn't speak. He clutched at his knee, grimacing. To Matthew's eyes, it was a bloody mess, bone shattered and splintered. He would be amazed if Guy would be able to walk properly ever again. The hole in his chest looked less painful, slipping between his ribs and out his back. It would account for Guy's weak breathing, but not his nearly incoherent moans of pain.

His eyes slid shut, and Matthew shook his shoulder.

“Ow, hey!”

“Don't you go to sleep,” he said. “That's how people die.”

Guy coughed.

“Can't...help it,” he muttered. “I'm dizzy.”

“All right, then. I guess you don't want to hear about Harken.”

Guy scowled, and he muttered something in Sacaen.

“I'll start by saying that I have no bloody idea why this is happening. But all I can figure is that Legault got it into his head to stage the dumbest kidnapping ever.”

“Huh? Legault?”

“Yeah, the bloke with the scars across his face, the one you met down at the pub with me that one time. He's a traitor, maybe. Cripes, I guess I am now, too, except I just tried to save your and my lives, and Legault's just crazy. He gunned down Angel of Death, though I can't figure out why, then snatched Harken and brought him somewhere. Harken took notes, though, and left one right before he got kidnapped. 'Meet the Hurricane by the dog tracks, 14:00.' Hurricane is Legault's name in the Fang, you see? But the police don't know that. So if Harken did, well, it means Legault told him—he probably couldn't use his real name, since Isadora knew it. So—”

“Isadora's involved?”

“...Well, maybe. I haven't quite worked that out yet. I don't think she knows what's going on, though. She's too frantic about Harken to be lying. But she hasn't seen Legault in a week, and neither has anyone else. Either something went wrong in this stupid plan of his, or he's holed up in his apartment, waiting for me to...”

He trailed off. Waiting for what? For Matthew to catch him in the act? What would the point of that be? Furthermore, Legault was the one that told him about the kidnapping to begin with. If he didn't want anyone poking into things, he'd sure picked a rotten way to go about it.

“To what?” Guy wheezed.

“...Beats the hell out of me. That's as far as I got.”

“Give him...hell, then.”

The door swung open, and Matthew's head snapped up. For the third time that day, he found himself facing down the barrel of a gun.

“Head Detective Tialys,” Guy said, lifting his hand in a half salute before passing out cold.

“Freeze,” the man said, and Matthew was all too happy to oblige. The detective's no-nonsense crew cut and neatly-ironed uniform brooked no room for trouble. The badge at his lapel, emblazoned with the Lycian lion, said 'Kent Tialys' in bold letters. A thickset bald officer and a freckled young cop flanked him.

“Drop the gun and back away from Mr. Kitsai,” he continued.

Matthew slowly stood up, hands out where they could see them, and shuffled away from his friend. The big officer made a beeline for Death Kite's corpse, snapping on a pair of gloves and peeling back his bloody clothing. A pair of clerics hurried in at Kent's word and begin to bandage up Guy.

“Who are you?” Kent asked.

“I'm Matthew...uh, Guy's flatmate. I'm a cabbie.”

“So you're Matthew,” he murmured. “You're under arrest.”

“Hey, what? You've got it all wrong. I wasn't the one who shot Guy. That would be Death Kite.”

“You're under arrest for Black Fang involvement and suspicion in the murder of Officer Sain Bertilek,” Kent replied, unable to wholly keep his voice level at the end.

“Oh,” Matthew said simply, fear spiking through him. “Am I going to jail?”

The bald officer snorted.

“Questioning, for you, but it's up to the detective on the case if you're getting locked up.”

Matthew's eyes flickered to Kent.

“Gwahahaha! Tialys here isn't running this one! No, this one's Beckett's.”

His breath caught for a second, but he didn't say anything. Guy had already told him about Leila. And, really, was she any more a traitor than he himself? Matthew had killed Death Kite and consorted with the police. He was working for Legault, who might be a traitor, but Leila went into the Fang with the intent to betray them. The whole idea hurt his head. Who the hell was he even supposed to trust anymore?

He shook his head and put on his best smile.

“All right. I’ll cooperate as much as I’m able to.”

“Lowen, take him back to the patrol car. Put him in cuffs,” Kent said.

“Hey, no need! I said I'd come easy!”

“Just give him to Beckett,” the bald man said.

The other officer clapped an iron hand on his shoulder and urged him forward. Matthew glanced back once more at Guy’s unconscious form, wished him luck, and walked out the door. Lowen, to his credit, didn’t unduly push him around or rough him up. He did keep a good grip on Matthew, but he would be a fool not to. Matthew didn’t intend on trying to make a break for it yet, anyway. Harken’s house was swarming with council cops, and if he tried to cut and run, he’d probably have a dozen bullets in him before he made it ten yards.

Lowen opened the car’s back door and gestured inside. Matthew slid in, then the officer shut the door and locked it. Leila turned and stared at him through the grate separating the back seats from the front. For a moment, her face betrayed nothing of her thoughts.

Matthew forced a grin.

“Funny seeing you here,” he said.

“I could say the same,” she replied. She didn’t seem happy to see him, or glad that she’d tricked him into buying her ruse. Her face was still drawn and haggard, bruises and scratches poking over the collar of her shirt, shadows under her eyes. She didn’t look much better than she had in the parking lot the day before.

“So, you’re really a cop? Best detective on the force, I hear. You must be pretty pleased with yourself.”

Leila sighed.

“Don’t do this. You’re not going to accomplish anything. I don’t feel guilt for what I am or what I did, so don’t waste your time.”

“You misunderstand me. Remember, my flatmate’s a detective, or at least he fancies himself to be one. That's not important, though. I just want to know if you meant that whole spiel in the parking lot, the part about trusting me, and…”

He trailed off, feeling too foolish to continue. If he brought up their kiss, he’d only sound like a bad romance actor, or a teenager with a crush. Instead, he shrugged, leaving it up to Leila to bring up what she wanted to.

“I should be the one asking the questions,” she said, cheeks flushing. “What the hell happened in there?”

“You already know pretty much everything I can tell you. I had no reason to lie to you every other time I’ve talked about this.”

“So, you have reason to lie now?” she asked.

“Reason, sure. But will I? I guess you can decide that for yourself. Do you trust me?”

Leila couldn’t quite keep herself from laughing.

“Slippery as always, Matthew. For what it’s worth, though, yes. I do. I know you didn’t kill Sain, or anyone else. You’re really just trying to do the same thing I am and save this city.”

He shifted awkwardly.

“I’m not exactly clean-handed anymore. I ran into Death Kite. He tried to murder Guy and me, and, well, I killed him. That’s the gist of what happened in there,” Matthew said.

“I can’t believe it. There’s been a bounty on him for over a year, and you’re the one who finally brought him down? Another Fang member?”

“I don’t regret it. I’d do the same to Ephidel if I had the chance,” he replied fiercely.

Leila fell quiet for a moment.

“…The police aren’t supposed to kill, but he sorely tempts me,” she confessed. “I didn’t know what he would do when I volunteered to go undercover in the Black Fang. I never would have if I’d known. It just…”

She gritted her teeth and pressed her forehead against the grate.

“It makes me so mad. Wallace hugged me when I came back and I actually felt myself panicking a little. It’s…I can touch people just fine, but as soon as a man goes to touch me? I feel so…pathetic.”

Matthew wanted to reach out and comfort her, but he realized that her words applied to him, too, and there was a grate between them besides.

“I wouldn’t have joined the Black Fang if I’d known what would happen to you,” he settled. “That isn’t what we’ve stood for. We were supposed to be a family, revolutionaries…”

“Does that mean you quit?” she asked, surprised.

“Maybe. Yes. I don’t know,” he replied. “I know there are some people who disagree with Nergal and Ephidel and the lot. They’re good people, they’re my friends. The Reeds, Igor, Blue Crow…Soaring Hawk, too. I trust them. I know they’re still hanging on to the old Fang. The others, though? I can’t very well say they’re my mates anymore, no. If they think they’re helping out this city, they’re fucking deluding themselves. The Fang’s been compromised. Hell, so have I.”

Leila arched a delicate eyebrow.

“Ah, well. Nothing to it,” he said, cutting off his own musings.

“What were you going to say?”

“Nothing. Though there was something else important I forgot to mention, though. I may have just found your missing police chief.”

She jerked back, eyes widening for a second, before she leaned in closer.

“What? Where is he?”

“You’re going to kill me for this, but I can’t quite say. If you blokes go in, guns blazing, shouting for an arrest, he’ll disappear and you’ll be left with empty hands. It’s got to be me.”

Her eyebrows lowered, and she stared intently at a spot next to Matthew’s head. He was surprised the seat didn't burst into flames from the intensity of that stare. He could see her jaw working, as if she was chewing the inside of her cheek.

“I can’t,” she said at last. “They would have my badge so quickly your head would spin.”

“Together, then! You’re still in plainclothes—want to go undercover one more time?”

A thin line of worry appeared between Leila's brows. She stayed silent another minute before nodding.

“…All right. Tell me where we’re going.”

“171 Fifth Street, Candler, Ilia. We’re going to see the Hurricane.”

Leila hesitated, hand hovering over the stick shift.

“The cleaner?”

“Cripes, Leila, this isn’t a trap. He did it. Legault’s got Harken and left us holding the snipe bag. He’s as much of a turncoat as us.”

She nodded and put her foot to the pedal.

Matthew sat quietly, his thoughts chasing each other round and round. What was he going to find at Legault’s place? Harken’s body, stuffed in the coat closet? Legault, bleeding out on the floor and Harken nowhere to be seen? He still hadn’t figured out the why. Why would Legault hatch such a foolish plan? Why would he ask Matthew to look into it? Would Legault attack them? Attack Leila? A week ago, Matthew would have laughed at the idea, but then, a week ago, Matthew would have stupidly stood in place and done anything the Fang asked of him.

“We’re here,” Leila said. She left the car and circled around to unlock his door. To her credit, her voice didn't shake, and her gaze was warlike and determined. Matthew grinned and came to stand beside her.

“Great. Let me do the talking.”

She followed him as he walked up the stairs to the flat. She still walked a little stiffly, and it sent anger needling through him. Good. He would need that anger.

He slammed his fist on the door.

“Legault!”

Matthew waited a minute, two, and knocked again.

“I'm not in the mood for your jokes. Get out here!”

“Move over,” said Leila, and then she kicked the door once, twice, and then the hinge gave out and it limply swung open.

For the fourth time that day, he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun…an old, tarnished revolver, like the one he’d seen in the magazine at Murphy and Huey’s.

“...Hey, Legault,” he said.


	8. The Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _You, I thought I knew you_  
>  _You, I cannot judge_  
>  _You, I thought you knew me_  
>  _This one laughing quietly_  
>  _Underneath my breath_  
>  \-- _Nightswimming_ , REM

Leila tensed to spring, but Legault holstered his weapon before she could, holding up a hand to forestall her.

“I see you just couldn’t wait to meet up with me. I hope you have good news. Though I do have to wonder why you brought this lovely lady with you.”

“She’s in the Fang. Ephidel’s been treating her like shit, so…I’ve sort of taken her under my wing. That’s not important, though. I want you to tell me what the hell you did with Harken Griflet,” Matthew said, staring him in the eye.

For a second, he doubted himself. Legault didn’t look like he’d been doing much better than Leila; dark bags hung under his eyes, and his usually lustrous hair looked lank and greasy. He didn’t look like a triumphant kidnapper living large. He looked like a ghoul.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. I haven’t any idea what happened to him,” Legault said, a frown tugging at his thin lips.

“Cut the crap,” Leila said. “Between that weapon of yours and the week-long disappearing act you’ve pulled, you’ve made quite the suspect out of yourself.”

“And that memo in Harken’s house—‘meet with the Hurricane at 14:00?’ Coincidentally right when he disappeared, don’t you think? That, and you consorting with Isadora Watson and having the skill to disable Angel of Death…” Matthew insisted.

“My, but you have been busy this week! I honestly didn’t think you’d figure it out. Come on in, then. There’s someone you might be interested in meeting,” Legault said.

They walked cautiously into his flat, Leila’s eyes darting every which way and her hand on her gun. Matthew’s breath caught as they stepped into the living room.

Harken sat in an armchair, his hands cuffed in his lap and the radio on. The faint static of Lycia’s news station buzzed in the background. He glanced up at the sound of footfalls, eyes widening. He didn't look much like his newspaper photo. Harken seemed younger, almost, his jaw faintly shadowed with blond scruff and his uniform wrinkled.

“Detective Beckett!” he exclaimed.

“I've got you, sir,” Leila replied, rushing over to him.

Legault turned and sighed.

“Matthew, did you really bring a cop in here?”

“Didn’t you do the same?” he shot back.

“Point taken. I think the four of us should all sit down for a nice, long, talk. Harken, as I promised, you’re free after this, so if you agree to be civil, I’ll take those cuffs off you,” he said, taking hold of his wrists.

“Of course.”

“Matthew, Detective, take a seat on the couch, if you’d like. Harken, you're clearly already familiar with this fearsome dame, but I suppose I should introduce my companion here. Matthew's a cabbie and thief of sorts, and the mastermind behind this rescue. He can tell you all about it later, though. For now, I suppose I’ll start.”

Legault stretched, cracked a yawn, and folded himself into a kitchen chair like a lanky alleycat. Leila's eyes didn't leave the scars on his face as he began:

“Yeah, this was all my idea. Of course, I never intended for anyone to get hurt. I’m afraid I didn’t account for Jaffar showing up and shooting, and I’m sorry to say that I gunned him down myself. You see, I needed to talk to Harken here, one on one, and I couldn’t risk another interruption from the police or the Black Fang, and that’s when a meeting became a kidnapping. Terribly sorry, Harken, I truly am, but that’s when I decided that some good could come of my mistake.”

“I wanted to stay true to Brendan Reed’s dream of purging corruption from the city. You must have realized by now that the Black Fang doesn’t follow those noble goals any more. Nergal showed up and now we’re no better than the Taliver or the Ganelon. We’re thugs. We’re the problem we set out to eliminate. What ever happened to us being revolutionaries? When was the last time any of us have fought against king or council? That’s why I asked you to look into this, Matthew; I thought you, of all people, might still subscribe to the old ideals, and I thought perhaps you might be able to sniff out who else did, too.”

“A storm is brewing. The police are worn thin and breaking their own laws. Half the council is riddled with corruption. The king is a madman. The Black Fang have lost our nobility. Something is going to give, and we have to decide what we’ll do when it does,” Legault said, his icy eyes intense and hawkish.

The four of them sat quietly a long while. Leila chewed her lip, matching Legault’s stare ounce for ounce. Harken’s eyes took on a far-off look, as if deep in thought. Matthew toyed with his flick knife, blade sliding out and back in.

Leila spoke first.

“I’ve met good Black Fang, but not many. Maybe even just Matthew. I admit that I’m skeptical about many of you—present company included, Mr. Hurricane. You talk about noble goals, but the way I see it, you’re a kidnapper and a murderer.”

Legault shrugged, clearly unperturbed.

“I can imagine why you think that, Detective. I don’t deny either of those labels. You don’t know me, and you do know creepy guys like Nergal and the Quinns. You don’t have to trust me, though. Just what I believe in.”

“Would that I could,” she murmured.

“So, what do you propose we do with the Fang that don’t fit your vision?” Matthew asked.

“Simple. We kill them,” Hurricane replied.

“I know we’re not exactly talking within the law to begin with, but you can at least pretend you’ll do this the right way,” Harken cut in.

“Like you don’t have bounties set up on half the Fang already?” Matthew shot back.

“A system you used to justify murdering Death Kite, I believe,” Leila said.

He gave her a sharp look, but she stared back with such intensity that Matthew looked away first.

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” he sullenly said.

“You killed Death Kite?” Harken and Legault exclaimed at once.

“…Yeah. He declared me a traitor for doing the job you gave me, and he tried to kill Guy and me. I did what I had to. I don’t regret it.”

“You can’t mean Detective Kitsai?” Harken asked. At Matthew’s nod, he said, “My fiancé is good friends with him. If you betrayed the Black Fang for his sake, well…That’s quite admirable of you.”

“Jerme had no morals or care for his comrades. I don’t condemn you,” Legault said with a shrug.

“So, are we just going to go in shooting and wipe out the problem members?” Leila asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I’d prefer we do this peacefully,” Harken said. “I’ve not lived a violence-free life, but I’d like to put that behind me.”

“There’s no reasoning with people like Ephidel,” Leila argued, and Matthew could feel her shiver next to him.

“I’m afraid I have to agree with the detective. Some of the Black Fang would out and out join us, and some could be reasoned with, but Nergal? The Quinns? Jaffar? I highly doubt it.”

“Hey, I wouldn't be so quick to judge Angel of Death,” Matthew said. “He was really nice to Nino, like you wouldn't believe.”

“Creepy guy. Not sure I trust him around her, but if there's the possibility, I suppose we can't just kill him,” Legault replied.

Leila's hand found Matthew's knee, her grip tight. He remembered the fear she'd felt, the way she had instantly condemned Jaffar. She didn't know him, of course—none of them did—but his reputation spoke for him. From Harken's scowl, Matthew assumed he thought the same. After Jaffar had killed one of his comrades in front of him, perhaps he was justified.

“Angel of Death killed four of my best officers alone and you want us to spare him?”

“Tell me, who was it that killed Beyard without provocation?” Legault asked.

Harken’s face flushed.

“I was on duty during the Caelin struggle. I didn’t mean—“

“This is what I'm talking about. Not just the Fang have done wrong, have they?”

“No, but targeting the police the same as we would the Black Fang? That’s just revenge.”

“So it’s revenge if it’s them but justice if it’s us?” Leila asked. “I don’t know, sir. I’m not sure if I buy that anymore.”

Harken nodded slowly.

“…I know that. We can’t just pardon these people, though. We can crack down on departmental problems in the Lycian police. We can fix that. But I won’t just shrug and let criminals roam free. Besides, what’s to stop them from being ‘revolutionaries’ again? They caused the same amount of trouble then as they do now, just in a different capacity. Call it 'noble' if you want, Hurricane, but I still cannot condone it.”

Legault nodded, gesturing dismissively to indicate that he hadn't taken offense. Despite the severity of the conversation, he still lounged easily in his chair, eyes nonchalantly half-lidded. Compared to Harken's military-stiff posture, Leila's quivering tension, and Matthew's rapid heartrate, he looked downright indifferent. At the very least, he didn't look liable to offer up an answer anytime soon.

“I mean, obviously you can’t just hand these blokes governmental jobs. Half of us would hate it something awful, anyway. No…You've got to make it possible for us to do what we do, but legally. Clean. Call it something like a reform program,” Matthew suggested.

“Come off it. No one’s going to be okay with that. Nearly a fifth of the city unemployed and the Black Fang getting cushy jobs?” Leila said.

“Well, no, people wouldn't be happy with it. We're heroes in Bern, but Lycians have no real love for us.”

“Still, I'm in favor of getting you all out of crime, and if we have to risk people's displeasure, we will. They don't much like us, either,” Leila replied.

Legault grinned.

“Oh, the commander would’ve loved you. The two of you would've been a deadly pair in the good days, I imagine.”

Matthew felt a blush touch his cheeks, but he didn't have a chance to say anything.

“What about the council? They’ll never be okay with this,” Harken said.

“Ha! The council is so divided they can barely agree on anything. Someone’s got to agree with us,” Matthew replied. He would have time to banter with Legault later.

“You can’t just ignore half the Lycian government!” Leila argued.

“…Maybe,” Harken said. “I used to be a personal bodyguard in Laus, you know, before the councilor turned me out and tried to have me killed as a scapegoat for one of his mad schemes. Councilor Elbert was the one who stepped in and took me into his own guard. I would give my life for him or Councilor Uther, and I will not hear ill spoken towards them. They’re good men. They might back us.”

Leila nodded.

“We can at least try. We’ll have to arrange a meeting of some sort and talk in private. You can mention that we’ve got some leads on the Black Fang and that they’re looking at going legitimate.”

“Or we can just do what Caelin did,” Legault said. “Now it’s one of the safest places to live. They just had to cut a swath through its problems.”

“Well, we’ll—“

“Quiet,” Harken interrupted, fiddling with the dial on the radio. His voice carried a note of urgency that silenced even Legault.

They all leaned in and listened intently to the staticky noise.

“--citizens stay inside and do not travel to north Bern. I repeat: there is a Black Fang shootout on Wyvern Street. All citizens stay inside and do not travel to north Bern. I repeat...”

“Well. Fuck,” Matthew muttered.

Leila and Legault sprang to their feet, guns in hand. Harken started barking orders.

“Beckett, dial up Detective Tialys. Get the rundown on the situation from him immediately. Hurricane, if you have a spare weapon, I'd appreciate it. Matthew, you said you're a cabbie, right? You can probably get us there quicker than I could, so you're driving. Take two minutes to get ready and we're heading out.”

“Yes, sir!” Leila replied, saluting crisply.

“Legault, I need a gun, too. Mine got confiscated,” Matthew said.

“I've got one spare, and it's going to the police chief here. I'm sorry.”

Matthew nodded, shutting his mouth on his arguments. Of the four of them, he was the only one without some measure of formal training, and he had another job to boot. He was still a thief at heart, something of a coward, not meant for front-line combat.

Leila hung up the phone and turned back to them.

“The police staged a raid on the Black Fang headquarters. They...thought you'd kidnapped me, Matthew, and with Guy having been shot by Death Kite, they took action. Officer Watson is leading the attack.”

The color drained out of Harken and Legault's faces at the same time, and a realization sparked in Matthew's head. Legault had sent Isadora on a wild goose chase the same time he was meeting Harken. Legault had written at least one letter to Isadora to console her. Legault paid Isadora personal visits for tea and conversation. It all made so much sense.

He glanced over at Leila and felt heat rush to his face. He and Legault perhaps weren't so different.

“C'mon, we've got to go. Legault, you're in charge,” Matthew said, pushing open the door.

“I'm afraid the police chief here is better-equipped for that than I am,” he replied with a shrug. “Of course, that's on the condition that I can ride up front.”

Leila snorted.

“We have more important things to worry about right now,” she said, wrenching open the passenger-side door and sliding in. Legault indignantly arched an eyebrow, but he sat in the back with Harken anyway. There was something faintly amusing at seeing him and the police commissioner behind the gate together. It looked like something a political cartoonist would dream up, gangster and policeman side-by-side, united in purpose. It felt inspiring to Matthew, though, and he grinned.

“All right. Take us in to Bern as quickly as you can. If there are bullets flying, get us close, but stay near the police vehicles. It'll make us less appealing targets. Beckett and I will reconvene with Isadora and take point,” Harken said.

“I beg your pardon, but the detective really oughtn't just bust in. She's marked as a Fang traitor now, you see. Matthew, too. And you know what happens to traitors...” Legault replied.

“As soon as you go in with the police, you're fucked, as well,” Leila sharply said. Matthew thought back to what Ursula had told him and was forced to agree. The Quinns already distrusted him. Heading in with the council's dogs would crush any credibility he had left.

“We'll call for Lloyd. He'll certainly listen to us,” Legault stated.

“What about Ursula? She and Isadora are friends,” Matthew suggested.

“Wait, Ms. Corone is in the Black Fang?” Harken asked.

“...yeah, well, you should probably just get used to all these surprises. That's what we do.”

The sound of gunfire put a stopper on their conversation. Leila cocked her gun, a silent calm stealing over her. Matthew envied her composure. His pulse hammered in his ears, a quick staccato, and sweat slicked his palms. He fervently wished he had a weapon beyond just his flick knife. His eyes scanned the streets, the buildings, the roofs, trying to make things out through the bleak beginnings of rain.

The police occupied the far side of the road, crouched behind their Warhorses like soldiers behind earthworks. Officers peeked out over the bonnets of the vehicles to take shots at the safe house. None of the Black Fang had left the building, though the barrels of their guns poked out of the cracked and shattered windows, and Jaffar's bright red hair stood out like a banner against the dusty rooftop. He and Denning crouched side by side, long-barreled rifles in hand. A few police lay dead or wounded in the streets, but Matthew couldn't see the damage done to the Fang. A fire smoldered in the charred wreckage of a neighboring shop, sputtering out as the raindrops hit it.

A bullet cracked Matthew's windscreen, and the four of them hunkered lower in their seats. He pulled the car into park, nearly bumper-to-bumper with the police car in front of him, and they scrambled out the side.

Isadora stood there, waiting to issue orders, but the words didn't come. Her mouth opened and shut soundlessly as she stared at Harken. He tiredly smiled and held his arms out. As the two hugged, they both tried to talk at once, a flood of “I missed yous” and “I was so worrieds” flowing out of their mouths.

“We'll explain later,” Legault cut in. They both backed up, looking a little dazed. “We've got to do something about this mess.”

“I'll give you the short of it, ma'am,” Leila said with a salute. “I've been undercover in the Fang for two months, gathering information. Legault and Matthew here are defected Black Fang members who came to assist us. We rescued Chief Griflet and came to talk with these Black Fang. We're going to end this.”

“Sir Legault, you're Black Fang?” Isadora asked, stunned.

“Former Black Fang,” he corrected. “I'm not all bad, I promise. I'm here to help.”

“Harken?”

“...Yeah, that's the plan. We're going to ask for White Wolf and his delegation to meet me and these three,” he replied.

Isadora's jaw clenched.

“No, I cannot. I cannot risk losing you again! I'm taking your place.”

“What? No, no! That's out of the question.”

It wasn't Harken who had spoken, though.

“I don't believe I asked you, Sir Legault,” she said. From the way she side-eyed him, she clearly hadn't even begun to handle his Fang involvement or Harken's return. She didn't have the time nor energy to put up with his bullshit.

“I agree with him,” Harken firmly stated. “And while I am your fiancé, I am also the chief of police, and as such—”

Even Matthew could see that that was the wrong thing to say. Isadora's brows lowered. Her scowl darkened the lines across her forehead, the shadows under her eyes, giving her a look like a thunderstorm personified.

“As my fiancé, you should love me enough to respect my autonomy; as my superior, you should understand that you've been MIA for a week and are in no condition to be in the field. As acting head of this investigation, I am responsible for parlaying with the Black Fang, and you will stay behind. That's an order,” she said.

Harken wilted, shoulders slumping.

“You're right, my dear. Forgive me. Just...be careful. I'll cover you from back here.”

She smiled and touched him on the arm.

“I feel safer already. Sir Legault, if you would, please arrange this meeting.”

“Certainly. Call off your men, firstly. They'll never trust you if all these men are trying to riddle them with bullets,” he said.

Isadora obliged. The booming of gunfire abruptly cut off from the police side of the street. After a few moments, the Fang shots slowed to a stop as well. Jaffar peeked over the lip of the roof, staring down at them like a falcon eying up prey. Legault calmly stood up, his hands out where they could see them, and walked out into the middle of the street. Matthew couldn't breathe, wondering if anyone would gun him down, would move to hurt him. Of all the things Legault had done in his tenure as a Fang assassin, Matthew found walking down that empty road to be the bravest of them all.

“Lloyd! Lloyd, I need to speak with you!”

Jaffar's low voice replied.

“White Wolf is occupied.”

“This is Hurricane. I need to speak with Lloyd! The police and I have met, and they would like to arrange a truce of sorts. Our delegation and theirs. Send word, will you?”

Jaffar stayed quiet for a moment, then leaned over to Denning and spoke inaudibly. Matthew watched with rapt attention, his heart thudding in his chest. He was acutely aware of the number of guns trained on Legault, of how quickly his life could end if he said the wrong thing.

Denning slipped down the stairs, and his voice rose over the silent street.

“This is a message from the police. 'I await your delegation.'”

“Aye, I heard,” Lloyd said as he walked out the door. He cut a daring figure, tall and tough, his chin up and his voice fearless. “I don't know what you're doing, Legault, but I'm going to listen. I don't promise anything else.”

“Yeah, that's just fine by me. Take three of your best men, I suppose, and we'll have a chat.”

“Middle of the street? Guns pointed at both of us?”

“Isn't that the way you always operate?” Legault returned with a laugh.

“A fine response! Give me a minute and I'll be back. I'll tell our men not to fire unless yours do,” Lloyd replied. A hint of amusement touched his voice, though. Matthew tentatively took it as a good sign.

“My men? Yeah, not quite. Sorry to disappoint, but I don't command anyone but myself. Nonetheless, I'll communicate your terms.”

Lloyd nodded curtly, turned on his heel, and walked back into the rundown building.

“He'll play fair,” Matthew said, speaking more to Leila than anyone else.

“I don't know,” she said, “but I'm willing to take that chance.”

She put her hand on his arm, and Matthew felt a flicker of courage suffuse him. Then Legault motioned for them, and they simultaneously rose to their feet. Isadora holstered her gun and walked out first. Matthew and Leila traded a quick glance and followed. Leila's eyes didn't leave the roof, watching Jaffar. He stared back, unmoving, like a gargoyle.

Lloyd walked out of the Fang house, his thick duster draped over his shoulders like the king's ceremonial robes. His brother loped easily at his side, wearing a toothy grin, loose in the face of adversity as only Linus could be. Igor limped along at his other flank, stern and levelheaded, his Fang tattoo displayed boldly by his sleeveless vest.

To Matthew's horror, a man that could only be Ephidel brought up the rear, his pale face cool and unamused. Leila shivered, but held her ground, jaw clenched.

“We are ready to talk,” Ephidel said, but his eyes were fixed on Leila. “It would be nice to ask why so many of the Black Fang's own stand among the police, though.”

His eyes glittered an eerie gold in the low light, and Matthew couldn't get a read off of him. He'd never known of anyone outside the Quinns with those metallic eyes and that coal-black hair, that pale, bloodless skin and handsome androgyny. They looked like vampires from old storybooks, and certainly Ephidel gave off that same predatory vibe. Even knowing what horrible things he'd done to Leila, Matthew found himself faintly awed. It made his skin crawl, and he had to look away to snap himself out of it, like a mouse staring into a cobra's eyes.

“We all choose our own paths,” Legault replied with a shrug, seemingly oblivious to the others' unease.

“Hey, I want to know what's up, too,” Linus rumbled.

“Suffice to say that I am doing what the commander wanted me to. Yeah, it looks odd now, but it's for the good of Bern, of Elibe.”

His answer didn't seem to wholly satisfy Linus, but it did mollify him some.

“Where's Blue Crow?” Matthew asked. “Why's Igor here instead of her?”

“Dead,” Igor said, swallowing thickly. “I'm not a good replacement for her at all, but she got surprised by these guys out here. Took six shots in a second. I watched her die myself.”

“Oh,” Matthew said quietly.

“We can't do anything to help her now, though. Not until we hear what this is about,” Lloyd said.

Leila stepped up.

“The chance at a pardon. We're working on a reform program, something to get you off the streets and helping out the city, on the government's coin, no less. We're trying to find a way for the Black Fang to work legitimately.”

“When's the last time you helped people? Since your father died?” Matthew asked.

“That's not important right now. He wouldn't have wanted us working with the government,” Lloyd said.

“We're not all bad,” Isadora told him. “And if you want us to get better, shouldn't you actually do something about it instead of destroying our property and impeding our efforts?”

“Why, you—” Linus snarled.

“The Black Fang does plenty, Lady Officer. We do not require your aid,” Ephidel smoothly said.

“Horseshit,” Matthew replied. “We're just as bad as the police and the government. Look how you treated Leila, and how little the rest of you did about it. Think about how readily you guys would let half the others here die. What kind of brotherhood is this, huh?”

The Reed brothers traded glances, chagrined. Ephidel's golden eyes narrowed.

“...Remember what we did to Aesha,” Legault said quietly. Matthew didn't know whom he referenced, but his words had a sobering effect on the others.

“I agree, but...I don't know if that's enough to make me take your offer. We can reform the Black Fang without all this,” Lloyd said.

“The Black Fang's choices are not determined by the Reeds anymore. Nergal has the final say.” Ephidel cut in.

“I'm sick of hearing you and your sister yammer on and on, giving us orders! Sonia's never going to be my mother, and I don't have to take orders from her—or you—anymore,” Linus growled. He made a terrifying sight, more than six feet of powerful muscle. He cracked his knuckles.

For once, Lloyd didn't move to hold his brother back. His own face darkened, mirroring his brother's bellicose scowl.

“I invited you to this talk out of respect—” he spat the word “—for your position. The Fang is in trouble. I don't care if we kill every politician and policeman in this city. It won't fix our problems. I've said the same thing how many times now? And you've always ignored me.”

“I do not think that is necessary,” Ephidel continued. His hand strayed slowly towards the gun at his hip. Matthew glanced around, realizing that no one else noticed.

With a shout, he dashed forward, bumping into Ephidel just the same was he would bump into a pigeon he was trying to pickpocket. His fingers found the grip of the gun, and he palmed it in a second, jumping back.

Ephidel spat a curse and lunged. Linus grabbed him before he got more than two paces, holding him in place with one burly arm.

“This man is dangerous!” Isadora said. “What game are you playing?”

“I promise, this isn't a trap,” Igor replied, casting a withering glance at Ephidel.

“It feels like one,” Leila said, glancing around.

“Don't say things you don't understand—” Linus started.

“Stop, we don't need to—” Legault interrupted.

“Police are roughing up our guys—”

“Your man attacked us!”

“He was grabbing a gun, Mad Dog—”

“I didn't ask you—”

“Brother, maybe—”

“Quiet!” Legault yelled. “Arguing like this isn't doing any of us any good. We need to sit back and think with our heads, eh? Do remember that. We need—”

A single gunshot sounded, and Legault staggered. His words died on his lips. Sonia stood in the doorway, holding a gun and grinning.

“Bitch!” Linus shouted, tossing Ephidel aside and bringing his bullpup rifle to bear. With a few sputtering cracks, he charged into the building. Matthew watched with shock as he bowled Sonia over, crashed through the half-closed door, and disappeared. With a yell, Lloyd rushed in after him.

“Don't get involved!” Isadora yelled back to her officers, looping an arm around Legault. He leaned heavily on her, wheezing a weak thank-you, eyes glassy and unfocused. Blood spilled from his chest, and his gun slipped from numb fingers.

Matthew froze, staring at Legault. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he saw Leila spring forward like a tiger, her fist connecting squarely with Ephidel's jaw. He snarled and tried to knock her over, but Leila braced herself on her back foot. She caught him around the legs. In an instant, Ephidel rolled over her shoulder, slamming hard into the ground.

He grabbed her ankle and pulled her to the floor. Leila yelped as he fisted his hand in her hair, but then she sunk her teeth into his arm, and he pulled back with a hiss. The detective rolled and pinned him beneath her. Ephidel outweighed her by a good fifty pounds or more, but Leila held him in place, grinding his face into the pavement.

“You're under arrest, you crazy bastard,” she said.

Seeing that Leila had things under control, Matthew ran in at the heels of the other Black Fang. He stepped over Sonia's bullet-ridden body in the doorway as he slunk into the dark safehouse.

Lloyd and Linus blocked the entryway, nearly back to back, their weapons pointing out at the assembly of Fang members. To Matthew's eyes, there weren't many left. Aion and Teodor had their heads splattered against the wall, their weapons never even drawn; Kenneth's eyes stared blankly ahead, a salvo of bullets through him; Zoldam lay face-down, unmoving, in the corner. A dozen others that Matthew didn't recognize lay injured or dead, their blood staining the floor.

“Everyone out, now,” Linus bellowed. “We're talking.”

“Put down your guns,” Lloyd added. “Nothing personal, but one of you just shot the Hurricane, and I'm not in any mood to play around.”

Nino set down her submachine gun first, grinning at her brothers, and Jaffar followed her lead without a word. At the sight of Angel of Death forfeiting his rifle, most of the Fang complied. Uhai dropped his weapon on the ground beside him, hands up. Some recruits whose names Matthew didn't know saluted sloppily and tossed down their knives. Ephidel's sister, Limstella, put away her gun, and after she spoke a few words, Denning did the same. He still mumbled under his breath, but no one spoke to silence him. Some of the others didn't look too happy to listen, though—least of all Pascal, who bristled and focused his shotgun on them.

“Put down your weapon,” Lloyd repeated, a hint of a growl in his voice.

“No,” Pascal returned.

Lloyd and Linus simultaneously pulled the triggers, taking him out. Everyone watched silently as Pascal hit the floor, neatly shredded by bullets. Matthew's blood chilled.

“Listen up, mates,” Linus said. “We ain't kidding. This is a big day for the Black Fang. Nergal's bullshit is over. Our arses are surrounded by police and the dead bodies of half our best men, and we've got to make a choice here.”

“Nergal is dangerous,” Limstella said, her voice hollow and haunting. “He has influence and power beyond your belief.”

“I've never even met him,” Igor scoffed.

“He pulls strings in Bern...He controls the king,” she continued.

“Point a gun and pull the trigger. I think that's what Teodor would've said,” Lloyd replied.

“Nergal is my father,” Limstella said. She squeezed Denning's hand, whispered a few words to him, and he nodded dazedly.

“Yeah, well, your sister just tried to kill Hurricane, and your brother might've made to shoot two of our other members,” Lloyd said.

“You misunderstand,” Limstella continued. “He is my father. He cannot afford to be weak, yet he has. He trusted the other two...to be strong. They are not. I am stronger than they ever were, and I will survive. Loyalty to him...That's just a construct.”

A shiver ran up Matthew's spine.

“We can pretend that isn't creepy,” he muttered, and Igor nodded.

“Now, what do we want to do?” Lloyd said. “I'm not making a decision without all of you.”

“I go wherever the Mad Dog goes,” Igor replied immediately. Linus grinned.

“No one's going to accept us like this,” someone said.

“Who's going to bother us?” Uhai countered. “We're feared, not despised. Do you know how many insects have tried to heckle me and met their end already? Fear not! We can all take care of ourselves.”

“What about Jaffar?” Nino piped up.

“Weird bloke,” Igor muttered. “Why do you care?”

“He's my best mate,” she said defiantly, slipping her hand into Jaffar's. The assassin nodded and stood a little straighter. Bandages still cocooned his chest, a silent reminder of his tie to her. Jaffar still made Matthew uneasy, of course, but his interactions with Nino assuaged that somewhat. He was sure that Leila would take some solace in it.

“All right, well, yeah, his vote counts, too,” Linus said.

“So, are we taking their deal or not?” Lloyd asked.

Everyone except Denning raised their hands in affirmation.

“This is a message from...” he began, but Limstella squeezed his hand and spoke for him.

“He agrees.”

Matthew grinned, clapping Lloyd on the back.

“All right, mate, let's talk to Legault and the police before they get all worried about us.”

He turned and walked back outside, not waiting for the others. An eerie calm had settled over the street, the only sounds the drumming of rain on the paving-streets and the slosh of water sputtering out of drainpipes. The injured or dead police had been dragged out of the road. The remaining cops milled about behind the ring of cars, some holding guns, others holding radio receivers.

Leila and Isadora sat beside Legault in the middle of the road. He lay half-draped on Isadaora, his hat tipped over his eyes and his hand resting on his chest. Rainwater poured down Isadora's face, smudging her make-up and giving her the appearance of tears. She didn't look up at the sound of Matthew's footfalls, but Leila did. Harken hovered a little ways away, an unreadable look on his face.

“Hey, cheer up! We did it. We won,” Matthew said.

He could see a shiver pass through Leila. She hesitated for so long that he almost prodded her to continue, but the pale look of dread on her face was enough to give him pause. Leila let out a shaky breath.

“...Matthew, he's dead.”

He stood there, staring blankly at Legault's body. All of his planning and scheming, his dreams for a better Black Fang, wiped out in a quarter second. It was so unfair. His mentor, his best mate in the Fang, dead in an instant. The fear and anxiety poured out of Matthew in a rush, as if someone had gutted him. For some reason, tears wouldn't come. His arms felt leaden at his sides, and his heart tightened into a heavy ball in his ribcage.

Leila came to stand next to him, resting a hand on his arm.

“I'm sorry,” she said. It sounded weak to Matthew's ears.

“Why do you apologize?” he asked, forcing a smile. “He messed up.”

Leila stared blankly at him.

“He was going to get to enjoy a new, better Elibe...but I guess he never will. I'll have to work twice as hard...” he said. Matthew wanted to scream, to sob, to do anything but stand there like an idiot. For some reason, the impulse couldn't seem to jump from his brain to his muscles. He swallowed thickly.

“We'll bring him back to the police coroner for now,” Isadora said, voice wobbling. She gently moved Legault's body out of her lap and drew to her feet. “Along with all the other casualties of this battle. We can get him to the morgue after that. Don't worry about the cost.”

“He loved you, did you know that? I always thought nothing could get to Legault, but somehow you did,” Matthew said.

Isadora nodded miserably.

“He told me, right before he died. Funny...he never made any attempt to act on it...Sir Legault was quite the gentleman.”

Harken put his arm around her shoulders, and she sagged against him. They looked like a pair of war veterans, the last survivors of a calamity, pushed beyond the limits of their endurance.

“He was something,” Harken agreed, meeting Matthew's eyes and nodding, an unspoken promise passing between them. “...Unfortunately, Matthew, you're still under arrest. You'll have to head back to the precinct with Detective Beckett and get this mess sorted out. I imagine sooner or later the rest of your Fang brethren will meet up with you and we can process you all at once.”

“...Can I be arrested a little later? I need to say goodbye.”

Matthew crouched next to Legault, taking off that stupid purple-banded trilby of his. Someone had already closed his eyes, and a trace of a smirk still touched his lips. He looked an instant away from laughing—a fitting legacy, Matthew thought.

“They got you this time, mate,” he murmured, staring at the dual scars across Legault's face. “I'm going to carry this through...that's what you'd want, right?”

He stared a moment longer, seeking one last bit of council from his mentor. Matthew would almost swear that, with the rain pouring around him, Legault nodded.

“All right, Detective. Take me away.”

Leila put a hand on his shoulder and steered him towards the car.

“I'm sorry,” she said again.

“...It's all right.”

“For what it's worth, you're probably not going to jail. You'll stay in your flat pending trial.”

“That's something, I guess. And, well...we did it. The Black Fang actually took your deal.”

Leila smiled tiredly. They both stood by the car, neither making a move to get in. He realized that they probably looked no better than Harken and Isadora, exhausted and bloodied.

“I know. You're a hero, Matthew.”

“...I want the credit to go to Guy. Forget about me.”

“I...What?”

“I'll say he told me where Harken was, and it was his detective work. I just had to do that last bit of legwork there. Look, I...I just lost one of my two best mates in the world. Gone like that. I'm an unemployed criminal, maybe facing prison. What've I got left if something happens to Guy, too? I already got him shot trying to finish this.”

Leila opened the door and slid into the back seat beside him. To his surprise, she put her arm around him. He leaned against her with a sigh.

“You're not quite alone, you know. You asked before if I trusted you; I still do. And I've perhaps become a little too attached to you.”

He smiled weakly.

“You mean a lot to me, too. I don't think this is really the right time, but...thanks.”

“We make a fine pair, huh?” she murmured. “We're both going to need a long holiday to begin to get over this.”

Matthew let out a hollow chuckle.

“Tell me about it...At least we got them, though. Sonia's dead and Ephidel's in cuffs. They can't hurt anyone else. I just...I wonder if Legault would've still gone through with this if he'd known how it would all end up.”

“From what I saw of him? I think so. He wasn't about to let his mortality get in the way.”

“Yeah...”

“Even if you give Guy all the credit, though, you'll still be a hero. A liaison between the government and the Black Fang, maybe. I suppose you'd better get ready to meet some important people.”

He stared out the window a minute, at the shot-up Black Fang safehouse and the street before it. Some of his old companions trickled out, stopping to pay their respects to Legualt on the way. They were a ragtag bunch, chewed up and beaten up. He watched Igor slowly limp out, Jaffar clutch his chest as he leaned on Nino, Uhai drag his leg behind him. In the mud and rain, though, the police didn't look much better. Harken still looked like he'd been run over by a train, and Isadora half-leaned on him, half-supported him, the drizzle giving them both a bedraggled appearance. Lloyd talked with them, gesturing with his hands at the men behind him.

“Nah, leave that to the Reeds. They always were real leaders. Me, I'm just a blue-collar guy. Hands-on. I think I might try something a little different.”

“And what would that be?” Leila asked.

“...Detective work.”


End file.
